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THE   STORY   OF    BESSIE 
COSTRELL 


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THE  STORY 


OF 


BESSIE    COSTRELL 


BY 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

Author  of  "Marcella,"  "History  of  David  Grieve" 
"  Robert  Elsmere,"  etc. 

3  J  J  >       J     t      ,  J 

'        '  J    J        >  )       J  .  ,.,.•> 

>>  >>1iJ3  >  )  ))  >i.l  3 


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N£b3  gorh 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    LONDON 

1895 
All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD. 


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*     c 

«  <  « 


<  t,    c  t  « 


etc     t  t  < 


S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


SCENE    I 


4  8^"^^"  ^0 

ENGLISH ' 


THE   STORY   OF    BESSIE 
COSTRELL 

SCENE   I 

It  was  an  August  evening,  still  and 
cloudy  after  a  day  unusually  chilly  for 
the  time  of  year.  Now,  about  sunset,  the 
temperature  was  warmer  than  it  had  been 
in  the  morning,  and  the  departing  sun  was 
forcing  its  way  through  the  clouds,  break- 
ing up  their  level  masses  into  delicate 
latticework  of  golds  and  greys.  The  last 
radiant  light  was  on  the  wheat. fields  under 
the  hill,  and  on  the  long  chalk  hill  itself. 
Against  that  glowing  background  lay  the 
village,  already  engulfed  by  the  advancing 

3 


4  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

shadow.  All  tbc  nearer  trees,  which  the 
daylight  hatl  mingled  in  one  green  monot- 
ony, stood  out  sharp  and  distinct,  each  in 
its  own  plane,  against  the  hill,  l^ach  nat- 
ural object  seemed  to  gain  a  new  accent, 
a  more  individual  beauty,  from  the  vanish- 
ing and  yet  lingering  sunlight. 

An  elderly  labourer  was  walking  alono- 
the  road  which  led  to  the  village.  To  his 
right  lay  the  allotment  gardens  just  begin- 
ning to  be  alive  with  figures,  and  the 
voices  of  men  and  children.  Beyond 
them,  far  ahead,  rose  the  square  tower 
of  the  church ;  to  his  left  was  the  hill, 
and  straight  in  front  of  him  the  village* 
with  its  veils  of  smoke  lightly  brushed 
over  the  trees,  and  its  lines  of  cottages 
climbing  the  chalk  steeps  behind  it.  His 
eye  as  he  walked  took  in  a  number  of 
such  facts  as  life  had  trained  it  to  notice. 
Once  he   stopped   to   bend   over  a   fence, 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll  5 

to  pluck  a  stalk  or  two  of  oats  ;  he  exam- 
ined them  carefully,  then  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  sniffed  the  air,  looking  all 
round  the  sky  meanwhile.  Yes,  the  sea- 
son had  been  late  and  harsh,  but  the  fine 
weather  was  coming  at  last.  Two  or 
three  days'  warmth  now  would  ripen  even 
the  oats,  let  alone  the  wheat. 

Well,  he  was  glad.  He  wanted  the  har- 
vest over.  It  would,  perhaps,  be  his  last 
harvest  at  Clinton  Magna,  where  he  had 
worked,  man  and  boy,  for  fifty-six  years 
come  Michaelmas.  His  last  harvest !  A 
curious  pleasure  stirred  the  man's  veins  as 
he  thought  of  it,  a  pleasure  in  expected 
change,  which  seemed  to  bring  back  the 
pulse  of  youth,  to  loosen  a  little  the  yoke 
of  those  iron  years  that  had  perforce  aged 
and  bent  him  ;  though,  for  sixty-two,  he 
was  still  hale  and  strong. 

Things   had    all    come    together.     Here 


6  The  Story  of   Bessie   Costrell 

was  'Muster'  tlill,  llie  farmer  he  had 
worked  for  these  seventeen  years,  dying 
of  a  sudden,  with  a  carbuncle  on  the  neck, 
and  the  farm  to  be  given  up  at  Michael- 
mas. He  —  John  Bolderfield  —  had  been 
working  on  for  the  widow ;  but,  in  his 
opinion,  she  was  '  nobbut  a  caselty  sort 
of  body,'  and  the  sooner  she  and  her  chil- 
dren were  taken  off  to  Barnet,  where  they 
were  to  live  with  her  mother,  the  less 
she'd  cost  them  as  had  the  looking  after 
her.  As  for  the  crops,  they  wouldn't  pay 
the  debts  ;  not  they.  And  there  was  no 
one  after  the  farm  —  'nary  one'  —  and 
didn't  seem  like  to  be.  That  would  make 
another  farm  on  Muster  Forrest's  hands. 
Well,  and  a  good  job.  Landlords  must  be 
'  took  down '  ;  and  there  was  plenty  of 
work  going  on  the  railway  just  now  for 
those  that  were  turned  off. 

He  was  too  old  for  the  railway,  though, 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  7 

and  he  might  have  found  it  hard  to  get 
fresh  work  if  he  had  been  staying  at  CHn- 
ton.  But  he  was  not  staying.  Poor  Eliza 
wouldn't  last  more  than  a  few  days ;  a 
week  or  two  at  most,  and  he  was  not 
going  to  keep  on  the  cottage  after  he'd 
buried  her. 

Aye,  poor  Eliza !  She  was  his  sister- 
in-law,  the  widow  of  his  second  brother. 
He  had  been  his  brother's  lodger  during 
the  greater  part  of  his  working  life,  and 
since  Tom's  death  he  had  stayed  on  with 
Eliza.  She  and  he  suited  each  other,  and 
the  '  worritin  childer'  had  all  gone  away 
years  since  and  left  them  in  peace.  He 
didn't  believe  Eliza  knew  where  any  of 
them  were,  except  Mary,  '  married  over 
to  Luton' — and  Jim,  and  Jim's  Louisa. 
And  a  good  riddance  too.  There  was  not 
one  of  them  knew  how  to  keep  a  shilling 
when  they'd  got  one.     Still,  it  was  a  bit 


8  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

lonesome  for  Eliza  now,  with  no  one  but 
Jim's  Louisa  to  look  after  her. 

He  irrew  rather  downhearted  as  he 
trudged  along,  thinking.  She  and  he 
had  stuck  togetlier  '  a  many  year.'  There 
would  be  nobody  left  for  him  to  go  along 
with  when  she  was  gone.  There  was  his 
niece  Bessie  Costrell  and  her  husband, 
and  there  was  his  silly  old  cousin  Widow 
Waller.  He  dared  say  they'd  both  of 
them  want  him  to  live  with  them.  At 
the  thought  a  grin  crossed  his  ruddy  face. 
They  both  knew  about  //  —  that  was  what 
it  was.  And  he  wouldn't  live  with  either 
of  them,  not  he.  Not  yet  a  bit,  anyway. 
All  the  same,  he  had  a  fondness  for  Bessie 
and  her  husband.  Bessie  was  always  very 
civil  to  ///;;/  —  he  chuckled  again  —  and  if 
anything  had  to  be  done  with  //,  while  he 
was  five  miles  off  at  Frampton  on  a  job  of 
work  that  had  been  offered  him,  he  didn't 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  9 

know  but  he'd  as  soon  trust  Isaac  Costrell 
and  Bessie  as  anybody  else.  You  might 
call  Isaac  rather  a  fool,  what  with  his  re- 
ligion, and  '  extempry  prayin,  an  that,'  but 
all  the  same  Bolderfield  thought  of  him 
with  a  kind  of  uneasy  awe.  If  ever  there 
was  a  man  secure  of  the  next  world  it  was 
Isaac  Costrell.  His  temper,  perhaps,  was 
'  nassty,'  which  might  pull  him  down  a 
little  when  the  last  account  came  to  be 
made  up ;  and  it  could  not  be  said  that  his 
elder  children  had  come  to  much,  for  all 
his  piety.  But,  on  the  whole,  Bolderfield 
only  wished  he  stood  as  well  with  the 
powers  talked  about  in  chapel  every  Sun- 
day as  Isaac  did. 

As  for  Bessie,  she  had  been  a  wasteful 
woman  all  her  life,  with  never  a  bit  of 
money  put  by,  and  never  a  good  dress  to 
her  back.  But,  '  Lor  bless  yer,  there  was 
a  many  worse  folk  nor  Bessie.'     She  wasn't 


lo  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

one  of  your  sour  people  —  she  coukl  make 
you  laugh  ;  she  had  a  merry  heart.  Many 
a  pleasant  evening  had  he  passed  chatting 
with  her  and  Isaac  ;  and  whenever  they 
cooked  anything  good  there  was  always  a 
bite  for  him.  Yes,  Bessie  had  been  a  good 
niece  to  him  ;  and  if  he  trusted  anyone  he 
dared  say  he'd  trust  them. 

'  Well,  how's  Eliza,  Muster  Bolderfield,' 
said  a  woman  who  passed  him  in  the  village 
street. 

He  replied,  and  then  went  his  way, 
sobered  again,  dreading  to  find  himself  at 
the  cottage  once  more,  and  in  the  stuffy 
upper  room  with  the  bed  and  the  dying 
woman.  Yet  he  was  not  really  sad,  not 
here  at  least,  out  in  the  air  and  the  sun. 
There  was  always  a  thought  in  his  mind, 
a  fact  in  his  consciousness,  which  stood 
between  him  and  sadness.  It  had  so  stood 
for  a  long,  long  time.     He  walked  through 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  ii 

the  village  to-night  in  spite  of  Eliza  and 
his  sixty  years  with  a  free  bearing  and  a 
confident  glance  to  right  and  left.  He 
knew,  and  the  village  knew,  that  he  was 
not  as  other  men. 

He  passed  the  village  green  with  its 
pond,  and  began  to  climb  a  lane  leading 
to  the  hill.  Half  way  up  stood  two  cot- 
tages sideways.  Phloxes  and  marigolds 
grew  untidily  about  their  doorways,  and 
straggly  roses,  starved  a  little  by  the  chalk 
soil,  looked  in  at  their  latticed  windows. 
They  were,  however,  comparatively  modern 
and  comfortable,  with  two  bedrooms  above 
and  two  living  rooms  below,  far  superior 
to  the  older  and  more  picturesque  cottages 
in  the  main  street. 

John  went  in  softly,  put  down  his  straw 
dinner-bag,  and  took  off  his  heavy  boots. 
Then  tie  opened  a  door  in  the  wall  of  the 
kitchen,  and  gently  climbed  the  stairs. 


12  llic  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

A  girl  was  sitting  by  the  bed.  When 
she  saw  his  whitish  head  and  red  face 
emerge  against  the  darkness  of  the  stair- 
hole,  she  put   u})  her  finger  for  silence. 

John  crept  in  and  came  to  look  at  the 
patient.  His  eyes  grew  round  and  staring, 
his  colour  changed. 

'  Is  she  a-goin  .'' '  he  said,  with  evident 
excitement. 

Jim's  Louisa  shook  her  head.  She  was 
rather  a  stupid  girl,  heavy  and  round-faced, 
but  she  had  nursed  her  grandmother  well. 

'  No,  she's  asleep.  Muster  Drew's  been 
here,  and  she  dropped  off  while  he  was 
a-talkin  to  her.' 

Mr.  Drew  was  the  Congregational  min- 
ister. 

'  Did  she  send  for  him  .-' ' 

'Yes  ;  she  said  she  felt  her  feet  a-gettin 
cold  and  I  must  run.  But  I  don't  believe 
she's  no  worse.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  13 

John  stood  looking"  down,  ruefully.  Sud- 
denly the  figure  in  the  bed  turned. 

'John,'  said  a  comparatively  strong  voice 
which  made  Bolderfield  start,  'John  —  Mus- 
ter Drew  says  you'd  oughter  put  it  in  the 
bank.  You'll  be  a  fool  if  yer  don't,  'ee  says.' 

The  old  woman's  pinched  face  emerged 
from  the  sheets,  looking  up  at  him.  Bluish 
patches  showed  here  and  there  on  the 
drawn  white  skin  ;  there  was  a  great  change 
since  the  morning,  but  the  eyes  were  still 
alive. 

John  was  silent  a  moment,  one  corner 
of  his  mouth  twitching,  as  though  what 
she  had  said  struck  him  in  a  humorous 
light. 

'Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  mind  much 
what  'ee  says,  'Liza  .-' ' 

'  Sit  down.' 

She  made  a  movement  with  her  emaci- 
ated  hand.     John  sat  down  on  the  chair 


14  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Louisa  gave  up  to  him,  and  hent  down 
over  the  bed. 

'If  yer  woan't  do—  what  Muster  Drew 
says,  John  —  whatever  ivnll  yer  do  with  it  ? ' 

She  spoke  slowly,  but  clearly.  John 
scratched  his  head.  His  complexion  had 
evidently  been  very  fair.  It  was  still  fresh 
and  pink,  and  the  full  cheek  hung  a  little 
over  the  jaw.  The  mouth  was  shrewd, 
but  its  expression  was  oddly  contradicted 
by  the  eyes,  which  had  on  the  whole  a 
childish,  weak  look. 

'I  think  yer  must  leave  it  to  me,  'Liza,' 
he  said  at  last.      '  I'll  do  all  for  the  best.' 

•No  —  yer'll  not,  John,'  said  the  dying 
voice.  'You'd  a  done  a  many  stupid 
things  —  if  I  'adn't  stopped  yer.  An  I'm 
a-goin.     You'll  never  leave  it  wi  Bessie  .? ' 

'  An  who  'ud  yer  'ave  me  leave  it  with  } 
Ain't  Bessie  my  own  sister's  child  t ' 

An  emaciated  hand  stole  out  of  the  bed- 
clothes and  fastened  feebly  on  his  arm. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  15 

'  If  yer  do,  John,  yer'll  repent  it.  Yer 
never  were  a  good  one  at  judgin  folk.  Yer 
doan't  consider  nothin  —  an  I'm  a-goin. 
Leave  it  with  Saunders,  John.' 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  John  said 
with  an  obstinate  look, 

'  Saunders  'as  never  been  a  friend  o' 
mine,  since  'ee  did  me  out  o'  that  bit  o' 
business  with  Missus  Molesey.  An  I  don't 
mean  to  go  makin  friends  with  him  again.' 

Eliza  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  long 
sigh,  and  her  eyelids  closed.  A  fit  of 
cousrhino:  shook  her  ;  she  had  to  be  lifted 
in  bed,  and  it  left  her  gasping  and  deathly. 
John  was  sorely  troubled,  and  not  only  for 
himself.  When  she  was  more  at  ease 
again,  he  stooped  to  her  and  put  his 
mouth  to  her  ear. 

'  'Liza,  don't  yer  think  no  more  about  it. 
Did  Mr.  Drew  read  to  yer  ?  Arc  yer  com- 
fortable in  yer  mind  ? ' 


1 6  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

She  made  a  sign  of  assent,  which  showed, 
however,  no  great  interest  in  the  subject. 
There  was  silence  for  a  long  time.  Louisa 
was  getting  supper  downstairs.  John, 
oppressed  by  the  heat  of  the  room  and 
tired  by  his  day's  work,  had  almost  fallen 
asleep  in  his  chair,  when  the  old  woman 
spoke  again. 

'John  —  what  'ud  you  think  o'  Mary 
Anne  Waller !  ' 

The  whisper  was  still  human  and  eager. 

John  roused  himself,  and  could  not  help 
an  astonished  laugh. 

'  Why,  whatever  put  Mary  Anne  into 
your  head,  'Liza  .''  Yer  never  thought  any- 
think  o'  Mary  Anne — no  more  than  me.' 

Eliza's  eyes  wandered  round  the  room. 

'  P'raps  — '  she  said,  then  stopped,  and 
could  say  no  more.  She  seemed  to  be- 
come unconscious,  and  John  went  to  call 
for  Louisa. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  17 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  John  woke 
with  a  start,  and  sat  up  to  listen.  Not  a 
sound  —  but  they  would  have  called  him 
if  the  end  had  come.  He  could  not  rest, 
however,  and  presently  he  huddled  on  some 
clothes  and  went  to  listen  at  Eliza's  door. 
It  was  ajar,  and  hearing  nothing  he  pushed 
it  open. 

Poor  Eliza  lay  in  her  agony,  unconscious, 
and  breathing  heavily.  Beside  her  sat  the 
widow,  Mary  Anne  Waller,  and  Louisa, 
motionless  too,  their  heads  bent.  There 
was  an  end  of  candle  in  a  basin  behind 
the  bed,  which  threw  circles  of  waver- 
ing light  over  the  coarse  whitewash  of 
the  roof  and  on  the  cards  and  faded 
photographs  above  the  tiny  mantel- 
piece. 

John    crept    up    to    the    bed.     The  two 
women   made    a   slight    movement    to    let 
him  stand  between  them. 
c 


1 8  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

'Can't  ycr  give  her  no  brandy  ? '  he 
asked,  whispering. 

Mary  Anne  Waller  shook  her  head. 

'Dr.  Murch  said  we  w^er'n't  to  trouble 
her.  She'll  go  when  the  light  comes  — 
most  like.' 

She  was  a  little  shrivelled  woman  with 
a  singularly  delicate  mouth,  that  quivered 
as  she  spoke.  John  and  Eliza  Bolderfield 
had  never  thought  much  of  her,  though 
she  was  John's  cousin.  She  was  a  widow, 
and  greatly  '  put  upon  '  both  by  her  chil- 
dren and  her  neighbours.  Her  children 
were  grown  up,  and  settled  —  more  or  less 
—  in  the  world,  but  they  still  lived  on  her 
freely  whenever  it  suited  them  ;  and  in 
the  village  generally  she  was  reckoned  but 
a  poor  creature. 

However,  when  Eliza  —  originally  a  hard, 
strong  woman — took  to  her  bed  with  in- 
curable disease,  Mary  Anne  Waller  came 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  19 

in  to  help,  and  was  accepted.  She  did 
ever3thing  humbly ;  she  even  let  Louisa 
order  her  about.  But  before  the  end,  Eliza 
had  come  to  be  restless  when  she  was  not 
there. 

Now,  however,  Eliza  knew  no  more,  and 
the  little  widow  sat  gazing  at  her  with  the 
tears  on  her  cheeks.  John,  too,  felt  his 
eyes  wet. 

But  after  half-an-hour,  when  there  was 
still  no  change,  he  was  turning  away  to  gb 
back  to  bed,  when  the  widow  touched  his 
arm. 

'  Won't  yer  give  her  a  kiss,  John  .-' '  she 
said  timidly.  '  She  wor  a  good  sister  to 
you.' 

John,  with  a  tremor,  stooped,  and  clumsily 
did  as  he  was  told  —  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  had  ever  done  so  for  Mary  Anne. 
Then,  stepping  as  noiselessly  as  he  could 
on  his  bare  feet,  he  hurried  away.     A  man 


20  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

shares  nothing  of  that  yearning  attraction 
which  draws  women  to  a  death-bed  as  such. 
Instead,  John  felt  a  sudden  sickness  at  his 
heart.  He  was  thankful  to  find  himself 
in  his  own  room  again,  and  lliought  with 
dread  of  having  to  go  back  —  for  the  end. 
In  spite  of  his  still  vigorous  and  stalwart 
body  he  was  often  plagued  with  nervous 
fears  and  fancies.  And  it  was  years  now 
since  he  had  seen  death — he  had  indeed 
carefully  avoided  seeing  it. 

Gradually,  however,  as  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  bed  in  the  summer  dark,  the 
new  impression  died  away,  and  something 
habitual  took  its  place  —  that  shielding, 
solacing  thought,  which  was  in  truth  all 
the  world  to  him,  and  was  going  to  make 
up  to  him  for  Eliza's  death,  for  getting 
old,  and  the  lonesomeness  of  a  man  with- 
out chick  or  child.  He  would  have  felt 
unutterably    forlorn     and     miserable,     he 


I 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  21 

would  have  shrunk  trembling  from  the 
shapes  of  death  and  pain  that  seemed  to 
fill  the  darkness,  but  for  this  fact,  this  de- 
fence, this  treasure,  that  set  him  apart 
from  his  fellows  and  gave  him  this  proud 
sense  of  superiority,  of  a  good  time  coming 
in  spite  of  all.  Instinctively,  as  he  sat  on 
the  bed,  he  pushed  his  bare  foot  backwards 
till  his  heel  touched  a  wooden  object  that 
stood  underneath.  The  contact  cheered 
him  at  once.  He  ceased  to  think  about 
Eliza,  his  head  was  once  more  full  of  whirl- 
ing plans  and  schemes. 

The  wooden  object  was  a  box  that  held 
his  money,  the  savings  of  a  labourer's  life- 
time. Seventy-one  pounds  !  It  seemed  to 
him  an  ocean  of  gold,  never  to  be  ex- 
hausted. The  long  toil  of  saving  it  was 
almost  done.  After  the  Frampton  job,  he 
would  begin  enjoying  it,  cautiously  at  first, 
taking  a  bit  of  work  now  and  again,  and 
then  a  bit  of  holiday. 


2  2  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

All  the  savour  of  life  was  connected  for 
him  with  that  box.  Mis  mind  ran  over  the 
constant  excitements  of  the  many  small 
loans  he  had  made  from  it  to  his  relations 
and  friends.  A  shilling-  in  the  pound  in- 
terest—  he  had  never  taken  less  and  he 
had  never  asked  more.  He  had  only  lent 
to  people  he  knew  well,  people  in  the  vil- 
lage whom  he  could  look  after,  and  seldom 
for  a  term  longer  than  three  months,  for 
to  be  parted  from  his  money  at  all  gave 
him  physical  pain.  He  had  once  suffered 
great  anxiety  over  a  loan  to  his  eldest 
brother  of  thirty  pounds.  But  in  the  end 
James  had  paid  it  all  back.  He  could  still 
feel  tingling  through  him  the  passionate 
joy  with  which  he  had  counted  out  the 
recovered  sovereigns,  with  the  extra  three 
half-sovereigns  of  interest. 

Muster  Drew  indeed  !  John  fell  into  an 
angry    inward    argument   against   his   sug- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  23 

gestion  of  the  savings  bank.  It  was  an 
argument  he  had  often  rehearsed,  often 
declaimed,  and  at  bottom  it  all  came  to 
this —  without  that  box  under  his  bed,  his 
life  would  have  sunk  to  dulness  and  de- 
crepitude ;  he  would  have  been  merely 
a  pitiful  and  lonely  old  man.  He  had 
neither  wife  nor  children,  all  for  the 
hoard's  sake ;  but  while  the  hoard  was 
there,  to  be  handled  any  hour,  he  re- 
gretted nothing.  Besides,  there  was  the 
peasant's  rooted  distrust  of  offices,  and 
paper  transactions,  of  any  routine  that 
checks  his  free  will  and  frightens  his 
inexperience.  He  was  still  eagerly  think- 
ing when  the  light  began  to  flood  into 
his  room,  and  before  he  could  compose 
himself  to  sleep  the  women  called 
him. 

But    he    shed    no  more  tears.     He  saw 
Eliza   die,   his  companion   of  forty   years, 


24  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

and  hardly  felt  it.  What  troubled  him  all 
through  the  last  scene  was  the  thouirht 
that  now  he  should  never  know  why  she 
was  so  set  as^ainst  'Bessie's  'avin  it.' 


SCENE    II 


SCENE   II 

It  was,  indeed,  the  general  oi)inion  in 
Clinton  Magna  tiiat  John  Bolderfield — or 
'Borrofull,'  as  the  village  pronounced  it, 
took  his  sister-in-law's  death  too  lightly. 
The  women  especially  pronounced  him  a 
hard  heart.  Here  was  '  poor  Eliza  '  gone, 
Eliza  who  had  kept  him  decent  and  com- 
fortable for  forty  years,  ever  since  he  was 
a  lad,  and  he  could  go  about  whistling,  and 
—  to  talk  to  him  —  as  gay  as  a  lark ! 
Yet  John  contributed  handsomely  to  the 
burial  expenses  —  Eliza  having  already, 
through  her  burial  club,  provided  herself 
with  a  more  than  regulation  interment ; 
and  he  gave  Jim's  Louisa  her  mourning. 
Nevertheless  these   things    did  not    avail. 

27 


28  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

It  was  felt  instinctively  that  he  was  not 
beaten  down  as  he  ought  to  have  been, 
and  Mrs.  Saunders,  the  smith's  wife,  was 
applauded  when  she  said  to  her  neighbours 
that  'you  couldn't  expeck  a  man  with  John 
Bolderfield's  money  to  have  as  many  feel- 
ins  as  other  people.'  Whence  it  would 
seem  that  the  capitalist  is  no  more  truly 
popular  in  small  societies  than  in  large. 

John,  however,  did  not  trouble  himself 
about  these  things.  He  was  hard  at  work 
harvesting  for  Muster  Hill's  widow,  and 
puzzling  his  head  day  and  night  as  to 
what  to  do  with  his  box. 

When  the  last  field  had  been  carried 
and  the  harvest  supper  was  over,  he  came 
home  late,  and  wearied  out.  His  working 
life  at  Clinton  Magna  was  done ;  and  the 
family  he  had  worked  for  so  long  was 
broken  up  in  distress  and  poverty.  Yet 
he  felt  only  a  secret  exultation.     Such  toil 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  29 

and  effort  behind  —  such  a  dream-land  in 
front ! 

Next  day  he  set  to  work  to  wind  up  his 
affairs.  The  furniture  of  the  cottage  was 
left  to  Eliza's  son  Jim,  and  the  daughter 
had  arranged  for  the  carting  of  it  to  the 
house  twelve  miles  off  where  her  parents 
lived.  She  was  to  go  with  it  on  the  mor- 
row, and  John  would  give  up  the  cottage 
and  walk  over  to  Frampton,  where  he  had 
already  secured  a  lodging. 

Only  twenty-four  hours  !  —  and  he  had 
not  yet  decided.  Which  was  it  to  be  — 
Saunders  after  all  —  or  the  savings  bank 
—  or  Bessie  ? 

He  was  cording  up  his  various  posses- 
sions—  a  medley  lot — indifferent  parcels 
and  bundles  when  Bessie  Costrell  knocked 
at  the  door.  She  had  already  offered  to 
stow  away  anything  he  might  like  to  leave 
with  her. 


30  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

'Well,  I  thought  you'd  be  busy,'  she 
said  as  she  walked  in,  'an  I  came  up  to 
lend  a  hand.  Is  them  the  things  you're 
goin  to  leave  mc  to  take  care  on  ? ' 

John   nodded. 

'  Field's  cart,  as  takes  Louisa's  things 
to-morrer,  is  a-goin  to  deliver  these  at 
your  place  first.  They're  more  nor  I 
thought  they  would  be.  But  you  can  put 
'em  anywheres.' 

'Oh,   I'll  see  to  them.' 

She  sat  down  and  watched  him  tie  the 
knots  of  the  last  parcel. 

'  There's  some  people  as  is  real  ill- 
natured,'  she  said  presently,  in  an  angry 
voice. 

'Aye.-*'  said  John  looking  up  sharply. 
'  What  are  they  sayin  now  ? ' 

'  It's  Muster  Saunders.  'Ee's  alius 
sayin  nassty  things  about  other  folks. 
And  there'd  be  plenty  of  fault  to  be  found 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  31 

with  'im,  if  onybody  was  to  try.  An 
Sally  Saunders  eggs  him  on  dreadful' 

Saunders  was  the  village  smith,  a  tall, 
brawny  man,  of  great  size  and  correspond- 
ing wisdom,  who  had  been  the  village 
arbiter  and  general  councillor  for  a  gen- 
eration. There  was  not  a  will  made  in 
Clinton  Magna  that  he  did  not  advise 
upon  ;  not  a  bit  of  contentious  business 
that  he  had  not  a  share  in  ;  not  a  family 
history  that  he  did  not  know.  His  prob- 
ity was  undisputed  ;  his  ability  was  re- 
garded with  awe  ;  but  as  he  had  a  sharp 
tongue  and  was  no  respecter  of  persons, 
there  was  of  course  an  opposition. 

John  took  a  seat  on  the  wooden  box 
he  had  just  been  cording,  and  mopped 
his  brow.  His  full  cheeks  were  crimson, 
partly  with  exertion,  partly  with  sudden 
annoyance. 

'What's  'ee  been  sayin  now?     Though 


32  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

it  doan't  matter  a  brass  farthin  to  me  what 
'ee  says.' 

*  He  says  you  'aven't  got  no  proper 
feelins  about  poor  Eliza,  an  you'd  ought 
to  have  done  a  great  deal  more  for  Louisa. 
But  'ee  says  you  alius  were  a  mean  one 
with  your  money — an  you  knew  that  ' ce 
knew  it  —  for  'ee'd  stopped  you  takin  an 
unfair  advantage  more  nor  once.  An  'ee 
didn't  believe  as  your  money  would  come 
to  any  good  ;  for  now  Eliza  was  gone  you 
wouldn't  know  how  to  take  care  on  it.' 

John's  eyes  flamed. 

'  Oh  !  'ee  says  that,  do  'ee  .''  Well  Saun- 
ders wor  alius  a  beast — an  a  beast  'ee'll 
be.' 

He  sat  with  his  chin  on  his  large  dirty 
hands,  ruminating  furiously. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Saunders  had 
thwarted  him  more  than  once.  There 
was  old  Mrs.  Moulsey  at  the  shop,  when 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  2>3 

she  wanted  to  buy  those  cottages  in 
Potter's  Row  —  and  there  was  Sam  Field 
the  higgler  —  both  of  them  would  have 
borrowed  from  him  if  Saunders  hadn't 
cooled  them  off.  Saunders  said  it  was  a 
Jew's  interest  he  was  asking  —  because 
there  was  security  —  but  he  wasn't  going 
to  accept  a  farthing  less  than  his  shilling 
a  pound  for  three  months  —  not  he!  So 
they  might  take  it  or  leave  it.  And  Mrs. 
Moulsey  got  hers  from  the  Building  So- 
ciety, and  Sam  Field  made  shift  to  go 
without.  And  John  Bolderfield  was  three 
pounds  poorer  that  quarter  than  he  need 
have  been  —  all  along  of  Saunders.  And 
now  Saunders  was  talking  '  agen  him  '  like 
this  —  blast  him  ! 

'  Oh,  an  then  he  went  on  '  —  pursued 
Bessie  with  gusto,  'about  your  bein  too 
ignorant  to  put  it  in  the  post  office.  'Ee 
said    you'd    think   Edwards    would    go    an 

D 


34  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

spend  it '  (I{-cUvards  was  the  post-master), 
'an  then  he  laughed  fit  to  split  'imself. 
Yer  couldn't  see  more  nor  the  length  of 
your  own  nose  he  said,  —  it  was  cdication 
yo2L  wanted.  As  for  'im,  'ee  said,  'ee'd 
have  kep  it  for  you  if  you'd  asked  him, 
but  you'd  been  like  a  bear  with  a  sore 
'ead,  'ee  said,  ever  since  Mrs.  Moulsey's 
affair— so  'ee  didn't  suppose  you  would.' 

'  Well,  'ee's  about  right  there,'  said 
John  grimly ;  '  'ee  talkin  sense  for  onst 
when  'ee  says  that.  I'd  dig  a  hole  in  the 
hill  and  bury  it  sooner  nor  I'd  trust  it  to 
'im  —  I  would,  by  — '  he  swore  vigor- 
ously. 'A  thieving  set  of  magpies  is  all 
them  Saunders  —  cadging  'ere  and  cadgin 
there.' 

He  spoke  with  fierce  contempt,  the 
tacit  hatred  of  years  leaping  to  sight. 
Bessie's  bright  brown  eyes  looked  at  him 
with  sympathy. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  35 

'  It  was  just  his  nassty  spite,'  she  said. 
'  He  knew  ' ee  could  never  ha  done  it  — 
not  what  you've  done  —  out  o'  your  wages. 
Not  unless  'ee  got  Sally  to  tie  'im  to 
the  dresser  with  ropes  so  as  'ee  couldn't 
go  a-near  the  "  Spotted  Deer  "  no  more  ! ' 

She  laughed  like  a  merry  child  at 
her  own  witticism,  and  John  relished  it 
too,  though  he  was  not  in  a  laughing 
mood. 

'Why'  —  continued  Bessie  with  enthu- 
siasm, 'it  was  Muster  Drew  as  said  to  me 
the  other  afternoon,  as  we  was  walkin 
'ome  from  the  churchyard,  says  'ee,  "Mrs. 
Costrell,  I  call  it  splendid  what's  John's 
done  —  I  do,''  'ee  says.  "A  labourer  on 
fifteen  shillin's  a  week  —  why  it's  an  ex- 
ample to  the  county,"  'ee  says.  "  'Ee 
ought  to  be  showed."  ' 

John's  face  relaxed.  The  temper  and 
obstinacy  in   the   eyes   began  to   yield   to 


36  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

the    weak    eomplacency   whieh    was    their 
more  normal  expression. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Bessie  sat  with  her  hands  on  lier  lap  and 
her  face  turned  towards  the  open  door. 
Beyond  the  cherry-red  phloxes  outside  it, 
the  ground  fell  rapidly  to  the  village,  ris- 
ing again  beyond  the  houses  to  a  great 
stubble  field,  newly  shorn.  Gleaners  were 
already  in  the  field,  their  bent  figures  cast- 
ing" sharp  shadows  on  the  golden  upland, 
and  the  field  itself  stretched  upwards  to  a 
great  wood  that  lay  folded  round  the  top 
of  a  spreading  hill.  To  the  left,  beyond 
the  hill,  a  wide  plain  travelled  into  the 
sunset,  its  level  spaces  cut  by  the  scrawled 
elms  and  hedgerows  of  the  nearer  land- 
scape. The  beauty  of  it  all  —  the  beauty 
of  an  English  midland  —  was  of  a  modest 
and  measured  sort,  depending  chiefly  on 
bounties  of  sun  and  air,  on  the  delicacies 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  37 

of  gentle  curves  and  the  pleasant  inter- 
mingling of  wood  and  cornfield,  of  light 
spaces  with  dark,  of  solid  earth  with  lu- 
minous sky. 

Such  as  it  was,  however,  neither  Bessie 
nor  John  spared  it  a  moment's  attention. 
Bessie  was  thinking  a  hundred  busy 
thoughts.  John,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
begun  to  consider  her  with  an  excited 
scrutiny.  She  was  a  handsome  woman, 
as  she  sat  in  the  doorway  with  her  fine 
brown  head  turned  to  the  light.  But 
John  naturally  was  not  thinking  of  that. 
He  was  in  the  throes  of  decision. 

'Look  'ere,  Bessie,'  he  said  suddenly; 
'  what  'ud  you  say  if  I  wor  to  ask  Isaac 
an  you  to  take  care  on  it .'' ' 

Bessie  started  slightly.  Then  she  looked 
frankly  round  at  him.  She  had  very  keen, 
lively  eyes,  and  a  bright  red-brown  colour 
on    thin    cheeks.     The   village  applied    to 


38  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

her  the  epithet  which  John's  thoughts  had 
applied  to  Muster  Hill's  widow.  They 
said  she  was  'caselty,'  which  means  flighty, 
haphazard,  excitable  ;  but  she  was  popular, 
nevertheless,  and  had  many  friends. 

It  was,  of  course,  her  own  settled  opin- 
ion that  her  uncle  ought  to  leave  that  box 
with  her  and  Isaac ;  and  it  had  wounded  her 
vanity,  and  her  affection  besides,  that  John 
had  never  yet  made  any  such  proposal, 
though  she  knew  —  as,  indeed,  the  village 
knew  —  that  he  was  perplexed  as  to  what 
to  do  with  his  hoard.  But  she  had  never 
dared  to  suggest  that  he  should  leave  it 
with  her,  out  of  fear  of  Eliza  Boldcrfield. 
Bessie  was  well  aware  that  Eliza  thought 
ill  of  her  and  would  dissuade  John  from 
any  such  arrangement  if  she  could.  And 
so  formidable  was  Eliza — -a  woman  of  the 
hardest  and  sourest  virtue  —  when  she 
chose,  that  Bessie  was  afraid  of  her,  even 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  39 

on  her  death-bed,  though  generally  ready 
enough  to  quarrel  with  other  people. 
Nevertheless,  Bessie  had  always  felt  that 
it  would  be  a  crying  shame  and  slight  if  she 
and  Isaac  did  not  have  the  guardianship 
of  the  money.  She  thirsted,  perhaps,  to 
make  an  impression  upon  public  opinion 
in  the  village,  which,  as  she  instinctively 
realised,  held  her  cheaply.  And  then,  of 
course,  there  was  the  secret  thought  of 
John's  death  and  what  might  come  of  it. 
John  had  always  loudly  proclaimed  that  he 
meant  to  spend  his  money,  and  not  leave 
it  behind  him.  But  the  instinct  of  saving, 
once  formed,  is  strong.  John,  too,  might 
die  sooner  than  he  thought — and  she  and 
Isaac  had  children. 

She  had  come  up,  indeed,  that  after- 
noon, haunted  by  a  passionate  desire  to 
get  the  money  into  her  hands  ;  yet  the 
mere  sordidness  of  'expectations'  counted 


40  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

for  less  in  the  matter  than  one  would  sup- 
pose. Vanity,  a  vague  wish  to  ingratiate 
herself  with  her  uncle,  to  avoid  a  slight — • 
these  were,  on  the  whole,  her  strongest 
motives.  At  any  rate,  when  he  had  once 
asked  her  the  momentous  question,  she 
knew  well  what  to  say  to  him. 

'Well,  if  you  arst  nie,'  she  said  hastily, 
'of  course  wc  think  as  it's  only  nateral 
you  should  leave  it  with  Isaac  an  me,  as 
is  your  own  kith  and  kin.  But  we  wasn't 
goin  to  say  nothing ;  we  didn't  want  to  he 
push  in  of  ourselves  forward.' 

John  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  which  were  rolled  up.  He 
pulled  them  down,  put  on  his  coat,  an  air 
of  crisis  on  his  fat  face. 

'Where  'ud  you  put  it.^'  he  said. 

'Yer  know  that  cupboard  by  the  top 
of  the  stairs }  It  'ud  stand  there  easy. 
And  the  cupboard's    got    a  good  lock   to 


The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell  41 

it;  but  we'd  'ave  it  seen  to,  to  make 
sure.' 

She  looked  up  at  him  eagerly.  She 
longed  to  feel  herself  trusted  and  impor- 
tant. Her  self-love  was  too  often  morti- 
fied in  these  respects. 

John  fumbled  round  his  neck  for  the  bit 
of  black  cord  on  which  he  kept  two  keys 
—  the  key  of  his  room  while  he  was  away, 
and  the  key  of  the  box  itself. 

'Well,  let's  get  done  with  it,'  he  said. 
'I'm  off  to-morrer  mornin,  six  o'clock. 
You  go  and  get  Isaac  to  come  down.' 

'  I'll  run,'  said  Bessie,  catching  up  her 
shawl  and  throwing  it  over  her  head.  '  He 
wor  just  finishin  his  tea.' 

And  she  whirled  out  of  the  cottage,  run- 
ning up  the  steep  road  behind  it  as  fast  as 
she  could.  John  was  vaguely  displeased 
by  her  excitement ;  but  the  die  was  cast. 
He  went  to  make  his  arrangements. 


42  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Bessie  ran  till  she  was  out  of  breath. 
When  she  reached  her  own  house,  a  cot- 
tage in  a  side  lane  above  the  Bolderfields' 
cottage  and  overlooking  it  from  the  back, 
she  found  her  husband  sitting  with  his 
pipe  at  the  open  door  and  reading  his 
newspaper.  Three  out  of  her  own  four 
children  were  playing  in  the  lane,  other- 
wise there  was  no  one  about. 

Isaac  greeted  her  with  a  nod  and  slight 
lightening  of  the  eyes,  which,  however, 
hardly  disturbed  the  habitual  sombreness 
of  the  face.  He  was  a  dark,  finely  featured 
man,  with  grizzled  hair,  carrying  himself 
with  an  air  of  sleepy  melancholy.  He 
was  much  older  than  his  wife,  and  was  a 
prominent  leader  in  the  little  Independent 
chapel  of  the  village.  His  melancholy 
could  give  way  on  occasion  to  fits  of  vio- 
lent temper.  For  instance,  he  had  been 
almost  beside    himself  when  Bessie,  who 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  43 

had  leanings  to  the  EstabHshment,  as  pro- 
viding: a  far  more  crowded  and  entertain- 
ing  place  of  resort  on  Sundays  than  her 
husband's  chapel,  had  rashly  proposed  to 
have  the  youngest  baby  christened  in 
church.     Other  Independents  did  it  freely 

—  why  not  she?  But  Isaac  had  been 
nearly  mad  with  wrath,  and  Bessie  had 
fled  upstairs  from  him,  with  her  baby,  and 
bolted  the  bedroom  door  in  bodily  terror. 
Otherwise,  he  was  a  most  docile  husband 

—  in  the  neighbour's  opinion,  docile  to 
absurdity.  He  complained  of  nothing, 
and  took  notice  of  little.  Bessie's  untidy 
ways  left  him  indifferent ;  his  main  inter- 
est was  in  a  kind  of  religious  dreaming, 
and  in  an  Independent  paper  to  which  he 
occasionally  wrote  a  letter.  He  was  gar- 
dener at  a  small  house  on  the  hill,  and  had 
rather  more  education  than  most  of  his 
fellows  in  the  village.     For  the  rest,   he 


44  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

was  fond  of  his  children,  and,  in  his  heart 
of  hearts,  exceedingly  proud  of  his  wife, 
her  liveliness  and  her  good  looks.  She 
had  hccn  a  remarkably  pretty  girl  when 
he  married  her,  some  eight  years  after 
his  first  wife's  death,  and  there  was  a 
great  difference  of  age  between  them. 
His  two  elder  children  by  his  first  mar- 
riage had  long  since  left  the  home.  The 
girl  was  in  service.  It  troubled  him  to 
think  of  the  boy,  who  had  fallen  into  bad 
ways  early.  Bessie's  children  were  all 
small,  and  she  herself  still  young,  though 
over  thirty. 

When  Bessie  came  up  to  him,  she 
looked  round  to  see  that  no  one  could 
hear.  Then  she  stooped  and  told  him 
her  errand  in  a  panting  whisper.  He 
must  go  down  and  fetch  the  box  at  once. 
She  had  promised  John  Borrofull  that  they 
would  stand  by  him.     They  were  his  own 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  45 

flesh  and  blood  —  and  the  cupboard  had  a 
capital  lock  — and  there  wasn't  no  fear  of 
it  at  all. 

Isaac  Hstened  to  her  at  first  with  amaze- 
ment, then  sulkily.  She  had  talked  to 
him  often  certainly  about  John's  money, 
but  it  had  made  little  impression  on  his 
dreamer's  sense.  And  now  her  demand 
struck  him  disagreeably. 

He  didn't  want  the  worrit  of  other  peo- 
ple's money,  he  said.  Let  them  as  owned 
it  keep  it ;  filthy  lucre  was  a  snare  to  all 
as  had  to  do  with  it ;  and  it  would  only 
brino-  a  mischief  to  have  it  in  the  house. 

After  a  few  more  of  these  objections, 
Bessie  lost  her  temper.  She  broke  into 
a  torrent  of  angry  arguments  and  re- 
proaches, mainly  turning,  it  seemed,  upon 
a  recent  visit  to  the  house  of  Isaac's  eldest 
son.  The  drunken  ne'er  do  weel  had 
given  Bessie  much  to  put  up  with.     Oh, 


46  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

yes  !  — sJic  was  to  be  |)laguecl  out  of  her  life 
by  Isaac's  belongings,  and  he  wouldn't  do 
a  pin's  worth  for  her.  Just  let  him  sec 
next  time,  that  was  all. 

Isaac  smoked  vigorously  through  it  all. 
But  she  was  hammering  on  a  sore  point. 

'Oh,  it's  just  like  yer  ! '  Bessie  flung  at 
him  at  last  in  desperation.  '  You're  alius 
the  same  —  a  mean-spirited  feller,  stannin 
in  your  children's  way  !  'Ow  O^o you  know 
who  old  John's  going  to  leave  his  money 
to.-*  'Ow  do  you  know  as  he  wouldn't 
leave  it  to  tJtcDi  poor  innercents'  —  she 
waved  her  hand  tragically  towards  the 
children  playing  in  the  road  ^ — ^'if  we  was 
just  a  bit  nice  and  friendly  with  him  now 
'ee's  gettin  old  .''  But  you  don't  care,  not 
you!  —  one  'ud  think  yer  were  made  o' 
money  —  an  that  little  un  there  not  got 
the  right  use  of  his  legs  ! ' 

She  pointed,  half  crying,  to  the  second 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  47 

boy,  who  had  already  shown  signs  of  hip 
disease. 

Isaac  still  smoked,  but  he  was  troubled 
in  his  mind.  A  vague  presentiment  held 
him,  but  the  pressure  brought  to  bear 
upon  him  was  strong. 

'I  tell  yer  the  lock  isn't  a  good  un  ! '  he 
said,  suddenly  removing  his  pipe. 

Bessie  stopped  instantly  in  the  middle 
of  another  tirade.  She  was  leaning  against 
the  door,  arms  akimbo,  eyes  alternately 
wet  and  flaming. 

'Then,  if  it  isn't,'  she  said,  with  a  tri- 
umphant change  of  tone,  '  I'll  soon  get 
Flack  to  see  to  it  —  it's  nobbut  a  step. 
I'll  run  up  after  supper.' 

Flack  was  the  village  carpenter. 

'An  there's  mother's  old  box  as  takes 
up  the  cupboard,'  continued  Isaac  gruffly. 

Bessie  burst  out  laughing. 

'Oh!    yer   old   silly,'  she  said.     'As   if 


48  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

they  couldn't  stand  one  top  o'  the  t'other. 
Now,  do  just  go,  Isaac  —  there's  a  lovcy  ! 
'Ee's  waitin  for  yer.  Whatever  did  make 
yer  so  contrairy  ?  Of  course  I  didn't  mean 
nothin  I  said  —  an  I  don't  mind  Timothy, 
nor  nothin.' 

Still  he  did  not  move. 

*  Then  I  s'pose  yer  want  everybody 
in  the  village  to  know.'''  he  said  with 
sarcasm. 

Bessie  was  taken  aback. 

'  No,  —  I  — don't  — 'she  said  undecidedly 
—  T  don't  know  what  yer  mean.' 

'You  go  back  and  tell  John  as  I'll  come 
when  it's  dark,  an,  if  he's  not  a  stupid,  he 
won't  want  me  to  come  afore.' 

Bessie  understood  and  acquiesced.  She 
ran  back  with  her  message  to  John. 

At  half-past  eight,  when  it  had  grown 
almost  dark,  Isaac  descended  the  hill. 
John  opened  the  door  to  his  knock. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  49 

'  Good  evenin,  Isaac.  Yer'll  take  it,  will 
yer?' 

'If  you  can't  do  nothin  better  with  it,' 
said  Isaac,  unwillingly.  '  But  in  gineral 
I'm  not  partial  on  keeping  other  folks' 
money.' 

John  liked  him  all  the  better  for  his 
reluctance. 

'It'll  give  yer  no  trouble,'  he  said.  'You 
lock  it  up,  an  it'll  be  all  safe.  Now,  will 
yer  lend  a  hand  .-' ' 

Isaac  stepped  to  the  door,  looked  up  the 
lane,  and  saw  that  all  was  quiet.  Then 
he  came  back,  and  the  two  men  raised  the 
box. 

As  they  crossed  the  threshold,  however, 
the  door  of  the  next  cottage  —  which  be- 
longed to  Watson,  the  policeman — opened 
suddenly.  John,  in  his  excitement,  was  so 
startled  that  he  almost  dropped  his  end  of 
the  box. 


50  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

*  Why,  Bolderfield,'  said  Watson's  cheery 
voice,  'what  have  you  got  there?  Do  you 
want  a  hand  ? ' 

'No,  I  don't — thank  ycr  kindly,'  said 
John  in  ag-itation.  '  An,  if  you  please, 
Muster  Watson,  don't  yer  say  nothin  to 
nobody.' 

The  burly  policeman  looked  from  John 
to  Isaac,  then  at  the  box.  John's  hoard 
was  notorious,  and  the  officer  of  the  law 
understood. 

'  Lor  bless  yer,'  he  said,  with  a  laugh, 
'I'm  safe.  Well,  good  even  in  to  yer,  if  I 
can't  be  of  any  assistance.' 

And  he  went  off  on  his  beat. 

The  two  men  carried  the  box  up  the 
hill.  It  was  in  itself  a  heavy,  old-fash- 
ioned affair,  strengthened  and  bottomed 
with  iron.  Isaac  wondered  whether  the 
weiofht  of  it  were  due  more  to  the  box 
or  to  the   money.     But  he  said    nothing. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  51 

He  had  no  idea  how  much  John  might 
have  saved,  and  would  not  have  asked  him 
the  direct  question  for  the  world.  John's 
own  way  of  talking  about  his  wealth  was 
curiously  contradictory.  His  'money'  was 
rarely  out  of  his  thoughts  or  speech,  but 
no  one  had  ever  been  privileged  for  many 
years  now  to  see  the  inside  of  his  box, 
except  Eliza  once ;  and  no  one  but  him- 
self knew  the  exact  amount  of  the  hoard. 
It  delighted  him  that  the  village  gossips 
should  double  or  treble  it.  Their  esti- 
mates only  gave  him  the  more  ground  for 
vague  boasting,  and  he  would  not  have 
said  a  word  to  put  them  right. 

When  they  reached  the  Costrells'  cot- 
tage, John's  first  care  was  to  examine  the 
cupboard.  He  saw  that  the  large  wooden 
chest  filled  with  odds  and  ends  of  rubbish 
which  already  stood  there  was  placed  on 
the   top  of  his   own  box.     Then  he   tried 


52  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

the  lock,  and  pronounced  it  adequate  ;  he 
didn't  want  to  have  Flack  meddling  round. 
Now  at  the  moment  of  parting  with  his 
treasure  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fever 
of  secrecy.  Bessie  meanwhile  hovered 
about  the  two  men,  full  of  excitement  and 
loquacity.  And  the  children,  shut  into  the 
kitchen,  wondered  what  could  be  the  matter. 

When  all  was  done,  Isaac  locked  the 
cupboard,  and  solemnly  presented  the  key 
to  John,  who  added  it  to  the  other  round 
his  neck.  Then  Bessie  unlocked  the 
kitchen,  and  set  the  children  flying,  to 
help  her  with  the  supper.  She  was  in 
her  most  bustling  and  vivacious  mood, 
and  she  had  never  cooked  the  bloaters 
better  or  provided  a  more  ample  jug  of 
beer.     But  John  was  silent  and  depressed. 

He  took  leave  at  last  with  many  sighs 
and  lingerings.  But  he  had  not  been  gone 
half  an  hour,  and  Bessie  and  Isaac  were 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  53 

just  going'  to  bed,  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  he  reappeared. 

'  Let  me  lie  down  there,'  he  said,  point- 
ing to  a  broken-down  old  sofa  that  ran  under 
the  window.  '  I'm  lonesome  somehow,  an 
I've  told  Louisa.'  His  white  hair  and 
whiskers  stood  out  wildly  round  his  red 
face.  He  looked  old  and  ill,  and  the  sym- 
pathetic Bessie  was  sorry  for  him. 

She  made  him  a  bed  on  the  sofa,  and  he 
lay  there  all  night,  restless,  and  sighing 
heavily.  He  missed  Eliza  more  than  he 
had  done  yet,  and  was  oppressed  with  a 
vague  sense  of  unhappiness.  Once,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  when  all  was  still,  he 
stole  upstairs  in  his  stocking  feet  and 
gently  tried  the  cupboard  door.  It  was 
quite  safe,  and  he  went  down  contented. 

An  hour  or  two  later  he  was  off,  trudg- 
ing to  Frampton  through  the  August 
dawn,  with  his  bundle  on  his  back. 


SCENE    III 


SCENE    III 

Some  five  months  passed  away. 

One  January  night  the  Independent 
minister  of  Clinton  Magna  was  passing 
down  the  village  street.  Clinton  lay  robed 
in  light  snow,  and  'sparkling  to  the  moon.' 
The  frozen  pond  beside  the  green,  though 
it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock,  was  still  alive 
with  children,  sliding  and  shouting.  All 
around  the  gabled  roofs  stood  laden  and 
spotless.  The  woods  behind  the  village, 
and  those  running  along  the  top  of  the 
snowy  hill,  were  meshed  in  a  silvery  mist 
which  died  into  the  moonlit  blue,  while  in 
the  fields  the  sharpness  of  the  shadows 
thrown  by  the  scattered  trees  made  a 
marvel  of  black  and  white. 

57 


58  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

The  minister,  in  spite  of  a  fighting 
creed,  possessed  a  measure  of  gentler  sus- 
ceptibiHties,  and  the  beauty  of  this  basin 
in  the  chalk  hills,  this  winter  triumphant, 
these  lights  of  home  and  fellowship  in  the 
cottage  windows  disputing  with  the  for- 
lornness  of  the  snow,  crept  into  his  soul. 
His  mind  travelled  from  the  pliysical 
jiurity  and  hardness  before  him  to  the 
purity  and  hardness  of  the  inner  life  — 
the  purity  that  Christ  blessed,  the  'hard- 
ness '  that  the  Christian  endiires.  And 
such  thoughts  brought  him  pleasure  as 
he  walked  — the  mystic's  pleasure. 

Suddenly  he  saw  a  woman  cross  the 
snowy  green  in  front  of  him.  She  had 
come  from  the  road  leading  to  the  hill,  and 
her  pace  was  hurried.  Her  shawl  was 
mufiflcd  round  her  head,  but  he  recognised 
her,  and  his  mood  fell.  She  was  the  wife 
of  Isaac  Costrell,  and  she  was  hurrying  to 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  59 

the  'Spotted  Deer,'  a  public-house  which 
lay  just  beyond  the  village,  on  the  road  to 
the  mill.  Already  several  times  that  week 
had  he  seen  her  going  in  or  coming  out. 
Talk  had  begun  to  reach  him,  and  he  said 
to  himself  to-night  as  he  saw  her,  —  that 
Isaac  Costrell's  wife  was  going  to  ruin. 

The  thought  oppressed  him,  pricked  his 
pastoral  conscience.  Isaac  was  his  right- 
hand  man  :  dull  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world, 
but  not  dull  to  the  minister.  With  Mr. 
Drew  sometimes  he  would  break  into  talk 
of  religion,  and  the  man's  dark  eyes  would 
lose  their  film.  His  big  troubled  self 
spoke  with  that  accent  of  truth  which 
lifts  common  talk  and  halting  texts  to 
poetry.  The  minister,  himself  more  of  a 
pessimist  than  his  sermons  showed,  felt  a 
deep  regard  for  him.  Could  nothing  be 
done  to  save  Isaac's  wife  and  Isaac  ?  Not 
so  long  ago  Bessie  Costrell  had  been  a  de- 


6o  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

cent  woman,  though  ;i  flighty  and  excitable 
one.  Now  some  cause,  unknown  to  the 
minister,  had  upset  a  wavering  balance, 
and  was  undoing  a  life. 

As  he  passed  the  public-house  a  man 
came  out,  and  through  the  open  door  Mr. 
Drew  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the 
bar  and  the  drinkers.  Bessie's  handsome, 
reckless  head  stood  out  an  instant  in  the 
bright  light. 

Then  Drew  saw  that  the  man  who  had 
emerged  was  Watson  the  policeman. 
They  greeted  each  other  cordially  and 
walked  on  together.  Watson  also  was  a 
member  of  the  minister's  flock.  Mr.  Drew 
felt  suddenly  moved  to  unburden  himself. 

'That  was  Costrell's  wife,  Watson, 
wasn't  it,  poor  thing.-'' 

*  Aye,  it  wor  Mrs.  Costrell,'  said  Watson 
in  the  tone  of  concern  natural  to  the  re- 
spectable husband  and  father. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  6i 

The  minister  sighed.  *  It's  terrible  the 
way  she's  gone  down  hill  the  last  three 
months.  I  never  pass  almost  but  I  see 
her  going  in  there  or  coming  out.' 

'  No,'  said  Watson  slowly,  '  no,  it's  bad. 
What  I'd  like  to  know,'  he  added  reflec- 
tively, '  is  where  she  gets  the  money  from.' 

'  Oh,  she  had  a  legacy,  hadn't  she,  in 
August  ?  It  seems  to  have  been  a  curse. 
She  has  been  a  changed  woman  ever 
since.' 

'Yes,  she  had  a  legacy,'  said  Watson, 
dubiously ;  '  but  I  don't  believe  it  was 
much.  She  talked  big,  of  course,  and 
made  a  lot  o'  fuss  —  she's  that  kind  o' 
woman — just  as  she  did  about  old  John's 
money.' 

'Old  John's  money .^  —  Ah!  did  anyone 
ever  know  what  became  of  that  ? ' 

'Well,  there's  many  people  thinks  as 
Isaac  has  got  it   hid   in   the  house  some- 


62  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

where,  and  there's  others  thinks  he's  put 
it  in  Bedford  bank.  Edwards  told  me  pri- 
vate lie  didn't  know  nothing  about  it  at 
the  post  office,  an  Bessie  told  my  wife  as 
John  had  given  Isaac  the  keepin  of  it  till 
he  come  back  again  ;  but  he'd  knock  her 
about,  she  said,  if  she  let  on  what  he'd 
done  with  it.  That's  the  story  she's  alius 
had,  and  boastin,  of  course,  dreadful,  about 
John's  trustin  them,  and  Isaac  doin  all  his 
business  for  him.' 

The  minister  reflected.  — 'And  you  say 
the  legacy  wasn't  much  .-'' 

'Well,  sir,  I  know  some  people  over  at 
Bedford  where  her  aunt  lived  as  left  it 
her,  and  they  were  sure  it  wasn't  a  great 
deal  ;  but  you  never  know.' 

'And  Isaac  never  said.''' 

'Bless  yer,  no  sir!  He  was  never  a 
great  one  for  talking,  wasn't  Isaac ;  but 
you'd  think  now  as  he'd  never  learnt  how. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  63 

He'll  set  there  in  the  Club  of  a  night  and 
never  open  his  mouth  to  nobody.' 

*  Perhaps  he's  fretting  about  his  wife, 
Watson  ? ' 

'Well,  I  don't  believe  as  he  knows  much 
about  her  goins-on  —  not  all,  leastways. 
I've  seen  her  wait  till  he  was  at  his  work 
or  gone  to  the  Club,  and  then  run  down 
the  hill, — tearin — with  her  hair  flyin  — 
you'd  think  she'd  gone  silly.  Oh,  it's  a 
bad  business,'  said  Watson  strongly,  'an 
uncommon  bad  business  —  all  them  young 
children  too.' 

'I  never  saw  her  drunk,  Watson,' 

'  No  —  yer  wouldn't.  Nor  I  neither. 
But  she'll  treat  half  the  parish  if  she  gets 
the  chance.  I  know  many  young  fellers 
as  go  to  the  "Spotted  Deer"  just  because 
they  know  she'll  treat  'em.  She's  a-doin 
of  it  now  — there's  lots  of  'em.  And  alius 
changin  such  a  queer  lot  of  money  too  — 


64  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

old  half-crowns, — years  and  years  old  — 
King  George  the  Third,  sir.  No  —  it's 
strange — very  strange.' 

The  two  walked  on  into  the  darkness 
still  talking. 

Meanwhile,  inside  the  'Spotted  Deer' 
Bessie  Costrell  was  treating  her  hangers 
on.  She  had  drunk  one  glass  of  gin  and 
water  —  it  had  made  a  beauty  of  her  in  the 
judgment  of  the  tap-room,  such  a  kindling 
had  it  given  to  her  brown  eyes  and  such 
a  redness  to  her  cheek.  Bessie,  in  truth, 
had  reached  her  moment  of  physical  prime. 
The  marvel  was  that  there  were  no  lovers 
in  addition  to  the  drinking  and  the  extrava- 
gance. But  the  worst  of  the  village  scan- 
dalmongers knew  of  none.  Since  this  new 
phase  of  character  in  her  had  developed, 
she  would  drink  and  make  merry  with  any 
young  fellow  in  the  place,  but  it  went  no 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  65 

farther.  She  was  bojifte  camarade  with  all 
the  world  —  no  more.  Perhaps  at  bottom 
some  coolness  of  temperament  protected 
her;  nobody,  at  any  rate,  suspected  that  it 
had  anything  to  do  with  Isaac,  or  that  she 
cared  a  ha'porth  for  so  lugubrious  and 
hypocritical  a  husband. 

She  had  showered  drinks  on  all  her 
friends,  and  had,  moreover,  chattered  and 
screamed  herself  hoarse,  when  the  church- 
clock  outside  slowly  struck  eight.  She 
started,  changed  countenance,  and  got  up 
to  pay  at  once. 

'Why,  there's  another  o'  them  half- 
crowns  o'  yourn,  Bessie,'  said  a  consump- 
tive-looking girl  in  a  bedraggled  hat  and 
feathers,  as  Mrs.  Costrell  handed  her  coin 
to  the  landlord.  '  Wheriver  do  yer  get 
'em.?' 

'If  yer  don't  ask  no  questions,  I  won't 
tell  yer  no  lies,'  said  Bessie,  with   quick 


66  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

impudence.  '  Where  did  you  get  them 
hat  and  feathers?' 

There  was  a  coarse  laugh  from  the  com- 
pany. The  girl  in  the  hat  reddened  furi- 
ously, and  she  and  Bessie — both  of  them 
in  a  quarrelsome  state  —  began  to  bandy 
words. 

Meanwhile  the  landlord  was  showing 
the  coin  to  his  assistant  at  the  bar. 

'Rum,  ain't  it.?  I  niver  seed  one  o' 
them  pieces  in  the  village  afore  this  win- 
ter, an  I've  been  'ere  twenty-two  year 
come  April' 

A  decent-looking  labourer,  who  did  not 
often  visit  the  'Spotted  Deer,'  was  leaning 
over  the  bar  and  caught  the  words. 

'  Well  then,  I  'ave,'  he  said  promptly. 
'  I  mind  well  as  when  I  were  a  lad,  six- 
teen year  ago,  my  fayther  borrered  a  bit 
o'  money  off  John  Bolderfield,  to  buy  a 
cow  with  —  an  there  was  'aif  of  it  in  them 
'arf-crowns.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  67 

Those  standing  near  overheard.  Bessie 
and  the  girl  stopped  quarrelling.  The 
landlord,  startled,  cast  a  sly  eye  in  Bes- 
sie's direction.     She  came  up  to  the  bar. 

'What's  that  yer  sayin.-*'  she  demanded. 
The  man  repeated  his  remark. 

'  Well,  I  dessay  there  was,'  said  Bessie 
—  T  dessay  there  was.  I  s'pose  there's 
plenty  of  'em.  Where  do  I  get  'em.-*  — 
why  I  get  'em  at  Bedford,  of  course,  when 
I  goes  for  my  money.' 

She  looked  round  defiantly.  No  one 
said  anything  ;  but  everybody  instinctively 
suspected  a  lie.  The  sudden  silence  was 
striking. 

'Well,  give  me  my  change,  will  yer .-' ' 
she  said  impatiently  to  the  landlord.  '  I 
can't  Stan  here  all  night.' 

He  gave  it  to  her,  and  she  went  out 
showering  reckless  good-nights,  to  which 
there  was  little   response.     The  door  had 


68  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

no  soon&r  closed  upon  her  than  everyone 
in  the  tap-room  pressed  round  the  bar  in  a 
close  gathering  of  heads  and  tongues. 

Bessie  ran  across  the  green  and  began 
to  climb  the  hill  at  a  rapid  pace.  Her 
thin  woollen  shawl  blown  back  by  the 
wind  left  her  arms  and  bosom  exposed. 
But  the  effects  of  the  spirit  in  her  veins 
prevented  any  sense  of  cold,  though  it 
was  a  bitter  night. 

Once  or  twice,  as  she  toiled  up  the  hill, 
she  gave  a  loud  sudden  sob. 

'  Oh  my  God  ! '  she  said  to  herself.  'My 
God  ! ' 

When  she  was  half  way  up  she  met  a 
neighbour. 

'  Have  yer  seen  Isaac  .'' '  Bessie  asked 
her,  panting. 

' 'Ee's  at  the  Club,  arn't  'ee  .■* '  said  the 
woman.      *  Well,    they    won't    be   up   yet. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  69 

Jim  tolt  me  as  Muster  Ferris  '  —  Muster 
Ferris  was  the  vicar  of  Clinton  Magna  — 
'  'ad  got  a  strange  gen'leman  stayin  with 
'im,  and  was  goin  to  take  him  into  the 
Club  to-night  to  speak  to  'em.  'Ee's  a 
bishop,  they  ses  —  someun  from  furrin 
parts.' 

Bessie  threw  her  good-night  and  climbed 
on. 

When  she  reached  the  cottage  the  lamp 
was  flaming  on  the  table  and  the  fire  was 
bright.  Her  lame  boy  had  done  all  she 
had  told  him,  and  her  miserable  heart 
softened.  She  hurriedly  put  out  some 
food  for  Isaac.  Then  she  lit  a  candle 
and  went  up  to  look  at  the  children. 
They  were  all  asleep  in  the  room  to  the 
right  of  the  stairs — -the  two  little  boys 
in  one  bed,  the  two  little  girls  in  the 
other,  each  pair  huddled  together  against 
the  cold,   like  dormice  in   a  nest.     Then 


70  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

she  looked,  conscience-stricken,  at  the  un- 
tiiHness  of  the  room.  She  had  hought 
the  children  a  wonderful  num])er  of  new 
clothes  lately,  and  the  family  being"  quite 
unused  to  such  abundance,  there  was  no 
place  to  keep  them  in.  A  new  frock  was 
flung  down  in  a  corner  just  as  it  had  been 
taken  off;  the  kitten  was  sleeping  on 
Arthur's  last  new  jacket ;  a  smart  hat 
with  a  bunch  of  poppies  in  it  was  lying 
about  the  floor ;  and  under  the  iron  beds 
could  be  seen  a  confusion  of  dusty  boots, 
new  and  old.  The  children  were  naturally 
reckless  like  their  mother,  and  they  had 
been  getting  used  to  new  things.  What 
excited  them  now,  more  than  the  acquisi- 
tions themselves,  was  that  their  mother 
had  strictly  forbidden  them  ever  to  show 
any  of  their  new  clothes  to  their  father. 
If  they  did,  she  would  beat  them  well, 
she  said.     That  they  understood  ;  and  life 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  71 

was  thereby  enriched,  not  only  by  new 
clothes  but  by  a  number  of  new  emotions 
and  terrors. 

If  Bessie  noted  the  state  of  the  room, 
she  made  no  attempt  to  mend  it.  She 
smoothed  back  the  hair  from  the  boys' 
foreheads  with  a  violent,  shaky  hand,  and 
kissed  them  all,  especially  Arthur.  Then 
she  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

Outside  she  stood  a  moment  on  the  tiny 
landing  —  listening.  Not  a  sound;  but 
the  cottage  walls  were  thin.  If  anyone 
came  along  the  lane  with  heavy  boots 
she  must  hear  them.  Very  like  he  would 
be  half  an  hour  yet. 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  and  shut  the 
door  at  the  bottom  of  them,  opening  into 
the  kitchen.  It  had  no  key  or  she  would 
have  locked  it ;  and  in  her  agitation,  her 
state  of  clouded  brain,  she  forgot  the  outer 


72  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

door  altogether.  Hurrying  up  again,  she 
sat  down  on  the  topmost  step,  putting 
her  candle  on  the  boards  beside  her. 
The  cupboard  at  the  stair-head  where 
John  had  left  his  money  was  close  to  her 
left  hand. 

As  she  sank  into  the  attitude  of  rest, 
her  first  instinct  was  to  cry  and  bemoan 
herself.  Deep  in  her  woman's  being  great 
floods  of  tears  were  rising,  and  would  fain 
have  spent  themselves.  But  she  fought 
them  down,  rapidly  passing  instead  into 
a  state  of  cold  terror  —  terror  of  Isaac's 
step  —  terror  of  discovery  —  of  the  man 
in  the  public-house. 

There  was  a  mousehole  in  the  skirting 
of  the  stairs  close  to  the  cupboard.  She 
slipped  in  a  finger,  felt  along  an  empty 
space  behind,  and  drew  out  a  key. 

It  turned  easily  in  the  cupboard  lock 
and  the  two  boxes  stood  revealed,  stand- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  73 

ing  apparently  just  as  they  stood  when 
John  left  them.  In  hot  haste  Bessie 
dragged  the  treasure-box  from  under  the 
other,  starting  at  every  sound  in  the 
process,  at  the  thud  the  old  wooden  trunk 
made  on  the  floor  of  the  cupboard  as  its 
supporter  was  withdrawn,  at  the  rustle  of 
her  own  dress.  All  the  boldness  she  had 
shown  at  the  'Spotted  Deer'  had  van- 
ished. She  was  now  the  mere  trembling 
and  guilty  woman. 

The  lock  on  Bolderfield's  box  had  been 
forced  long  before ;  it  opened  to  her  hand. 
A  heap  of  sovereigns  and  half  sovereigns 
lay  on  one  side,  divided  by  a  wooden  par- 
tition from  the  few  silver  coins,  crowns  and 
half-crowns,  still  lying  on  the  other.  She 
counted  both  the  gold  and  silver,  los- 
ing her  reckoning  again  and  again,  be- 
cause of  the  sudden  anguish  of  listening 
that  would  overtake  her. 


74  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Thirty-six  pounds  on  the  one  side,  not 
much  more  than  thirty  shillings  on  the 
other.  When  John  left  it  there  had  been 
fifty-one  pounds  in  gold,  and  rather  more 
than  twenty  pounds  in  silver,  most  of  it 
in  half-crowns.  Ah !  she  knew  the  fig- 
ures well. 

Did  that  man  who  had  spoken  to  the 
landlord  in  the  public-house  suspect .'' 
How  strange  they  had  all  looked  !  What 
a  silly  fool  she  had  been  to  change  so 
much  of  the  silver,  instead  of  sticking  to 
the  gold  !  Yet  she  had  thought  the  gold 
would  be  noticed  more. 

When  was  old  John  coming  back  .-'  He 
had  written  once  from  Frampton  to  say  that 
he  was  '  laid  up  bad  with  the  rheumatics,' 
and  was  probably  going  into  the  Framp- 
ton Infirmary.  That  was  in  November. 
Since  then  nothing  had  been  heard  of 
him.     John  was  no  scholar.     What  if  he 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  75 

died  without  coming  back  ?  There  would 
be  no  trouble  then,  except  —  except  with 
Isaac. 

Her  mind  suddenly  filled  with  wild 
visions,  —  of  herself  marched  through  the 
village  by  Watson,  as  she  had  once  seen 
him  march  a  poacher  who  had  mauled 
one  of  Mr.  Forrest's  keepers  —  of  the 
towering  walls  of  Frampton  jail  —  of  a 
visible  physical  shame  which  would  kill 
her  —  drive  her  mad.  If,  indeed,  Isaac 
did  not  kill  her  before  anyone  but  he 
knew!  He  had  been  that  cross  and  glum 
all  these  last  weeks  —  never  a  bit  of  talk 
hardly  —  always  snapping  at  her  and  the 
children.  Yet  he  had  never  said  a  word 
to  her  about  the  drink  —  nor  about  the 
things  she  had  bought.  As  to  the  '  things  ' 
and  the  bills,  she  believed  that  he  knew 
nothing  —  had  noticed  nothing.  At  home 
he  was  always  smoking,  sitting  silent,  with 


76  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

dim  eyes,  like  a  man  in  a  dream  —  or 
reading  his  father's  old  books,  'good 
books,'  which  filled  Bessie  Avith  a  sense  of 
dreariness  unspeakable  —  or  pondering  his 
weekly  paper. 

But  she  believed  he  had  begun  to  notice 
the  drink.  Drinking  was  universal  in  Clin- 
ton, though  there  was  not  much  drunken- 
ness. Teetotalers  were  unknown,  and 
Isaac  himself  drank  his  beer  freely,  and 
a  glass  of  spirits,  like  anybody  else  on 
occasion.  She  had  been  used  for  years  to 
fetch  his  beer  from  the  public,  and  she 
had  been  careful.     But  there  were  signs  — 

Oh !  if  she  could  only  think  of  some 
way  of  putting  it  back  —  this  thirty  odd 
pounds.  She  held  her  head  between  her 
hands,  thinking  and  thinking.  Couldn't 
that  little  lawyer  man  to  whom  she  went 
every  month  at  Bedford,  to  fetch  her 
legacy  money  —  couldn't   he  lend  it    her. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  77 

and  keep  her  money  till  it  was  paid  ?  She 
could  make  up  a  story,  and  give  him  some- 
thing for  himself  to  induce  him  to  hold  his 
tongue.  She  had  thought  of  this  often  be- 
fore, but  never  so  urgently  as  now.  She 
would  take  the  carrier's  cart  to  Bedford 
next  day,  while  Isaac  was  at  work,  and  try. 
Yet  all  the  time  despair  was  at  her 
heart.  So  hard  to  undo !  Yet  how  easy 
it  had  been  to  take  and  to  spend.  She 
thought  of  that  day  in  September,  when 
she  had  got  the  news  of  her  legacy  —  six 
shillings  a  week  from  an  old  aunt — -her 
father's  aunt,  whose  very  existence  she 
had  forgotten.  The  wild  delight  of  it ! 
Isaac  got  sixteen  shillings  a  week  in 
wages  —  here  was  nearly  half  as  much 
again.  She  was  warned  that  it  would 
come  to  an  end  in  two  years.  But  none 
the  less  it  seemed  to  her  a  fortune  —  and 
all  her  life,  before  it  came,  mere  hard  pinch- 


78  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

ing  and  endurance.  She  had  always  been 
one  to  spend  where  she  could.  Old  John 
had  often  rated  her  for  it.  So  had  Isaac. 
But  that  was  his  money.  This  was  hers, 
and  he  who,  for  religious  reasons,  had 
never  made  friends  with  or  thought  well  of 
any  of  her  family,  instinctively  disliked  the 
money  which  had  come  from  them,  and 
made  few  inquiries  into  the  spending  of  it. 

Oh  !  the  joy  of  those  first  visits  to 
Frampton,  when  all  the  shops  had  seemed 
to  be  there  for  her,  and  she  their  natural 
mistress  !  How  ready  people  had  been  to 
trust  her  in  the  village  !  How  tempting 
it  had  been  to  brag  and  make  a  mystery  ! 
That  old  skinflint,  Mr.s.  Moulsey,  at  'the 
shop,'  she  had  been  all  sugar  and  sweets 
then. 

And  a  few  weeks  later  —  six,  seven 
weeks  later  —  about  the  beginning  of  Oc- 
tober, these  halcyon  days  had  all  come  to 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  79 

an  end.  She  owed  what  she  could  not 
pay — people  had  ceased  to  smile  upon 
her  —  she  was  harassed,  excited,  worried 
out  of  her  life. 

Old  familiar  wonder  of  such  a  tempera- 
ment! How  can  it  be  so  easy  to  spend, 
so  delightful  to  promise,  and  so  unreason- 
ably, so  unjustly  difficult,  to  pay  .'' 

She  began  to  be  mortally  afraid  of  Isaac 
—  of  the  effect  of  disclosures.  One  night 
she  was  alone  in  the  cottage,  almost  beside 
herself  under  the  pressure  of  one  or  two 
claims  she  could  not  meet  —  one  claim 
especially,  that  of  a  little  jeweller,  from 
whom  she  had  bought  a  gold  ring  and  a 
brooch  at  Frampton  —  when  the  thought 
of  John's  hoard  swept  upon  her — clutched 
her  like  something  living  and  tyrannical, 
not  to  be  shaken  off. 

It  struck  her  all  in  an  instant  that  there 
was  another  cupboard  in  the  little  parlour. 


8o  Tlic  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

exactly  like  that  on  the  stairs.  The  lower 
cupboard   had  a  key  —  what   if  it  fitted? 

The  Devil  must  have  been  eager  and 
active  that  night,  for  the  key  turned  in 
the  lock  with  a  smoothness  that  made 
honesty  impossible,  almost  foolish.  And 
the  old,  weak  lock  on  the  box  itself  — 
why,  a  chisel  had  soon  made  an  end  of 
that!  Only  five  minutes  —  it  had  been  so 
quick  —  there  had  been  no  trouble.  God 
had  made  no  sign  at  all. 

Since  !  All  the  village  smiles  —  the  vil- 
lage flatteries  recovered  —  an  orgie  of 
power  and  pleasure  —  new  passions  and 
excitements  —  above  all,  the  rising  pas- 
sion of  drink,  sweeping  in  storms  through 
a  weak  nature  that  alternately  opened 
to  them  and  shuddered  at  them.  And 
through  everything  the  steadily  dribbling 
away  of  the  hoard  —  the  astonishing  ease 
and  rapidity  with  which  the  coins  —  gold 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  8i 


or  silver  —  had  flowed  through  her  hands  ! 
How  could  one  spend  so  much  in  meat 
and  dress,  in  beer  and  gin,  in  giving  other 
people  beer  and  gin?  How  was  it  possi- 
ble? She  sat  lost  in  miserable  thoughts, 
a  mist  round  her.  .   .   . 

'Wal  I  niver ! '  said  a  low,  astonished 
voice  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Bessie  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  shriek, 
the  heart  stopping  in  her  breast.  The 
door  below  was  ajar,  and  through  the  open- 
ing peered  a  face  —  the  vicious,  drunken 
face  of  her  husband's  eldest  son,  Timothy 
Costrell. 

The  man  below  cast  one  more  look  of 
amazement  at  the  woman  standing  on  the 
top  stair,  at  the  candle  behind  her,  at  the 
open  box.  Then  an  idea  struck  him  :  he 
sprang  up  the  stairs  at  a  bound. 

'  By  gosh  ! '  he  said,  looking  down  at 
the  gold  and  silver.     'By  gosh!' 

G 


82  71iL'  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Bessie  tried  to  thrust  him  baek.  'What 
are  you  here  for  ? '  she  asked  fiercely,  her 
trembHng  hps  the  coh)ur  of  the  white- 
washed wall  behind.  '  You  iret  off  at 
onst,  or  I'll  call  yer  father.' 

He  pushed  her  contemptuously  aside. 
The  swish  of  her  dress  caught  the  candle, 
and  by  good  fortune  put  it  out,  or  she 
would  have  been  in  a  blaze.  Now  there 
was  only  the  light  from  the  paraffin  lamp 
in  the  kitchen  below  striking  upwards 
through  the  open  door. 

She  fell  against  the  doorway  of  her 
bedroom,  panting  and  breathless,  watching 
him. 

He  seated  himself  in  her  place,  and 
stooped  to  look  at  the  box.  On  the  inside 
of  the  lid  was  pasted  a  discoloured  piece 
of  paper,  and  on  the  paper  was  written,  in 
a  round,  laborious  hand,  the  name,  'John 
Bolderfield.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  St, 

'My  blazes!'  he  said  slowly,  his  blood- 
shot eyes  opening  wider  than  ever.  '  It's 
old  John's  money!  So  yo've  been  after 
it,  eh  ? ' 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  grin,  one  hand 
on  the  box.  He  had  been  tramping  for 
more  than  three  months,  during  which 
time  they  had  heard  nothing  of  him.  His 
filthy  clothes  scarcely  hung  together.  His 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  wolfish.  From 
the  whole  man  there  rose  a  sort  of  exhala- 
tion of  sodden  vice.  Bessie  had  seen  him 
drunken  and  out  at  elbows  before,  but 
never  so  much  of  the  beast  as  this. 

However,  by  this  time  she  had  some- 
what recovered  herself,  and,  approaching 
him,  she  stooped  and  tried  to  shut  the  box, 

'  You  take  yourself  off,'  she  said,  des- 
perately, pushing  him  with  her  fist.  'That 
money's  no  business  o'  yourn.  It's  John's, 
an  he's  com  in  back  directly.     He  gave  it 


84  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

us  to  look  after,  an  I  vvor  countin  it. 
March  !  —  tlicrc's  your  father  comin  ! ' 

And  with  all  her  force  she  endeavoured 
to  wrench  his  hand  away,  lie  tore  it  from 
her,  and  hit  out  at  her  backwards  —  a 
blow  that  sent  her  reeling  against  the  wall. 

'Yo  take  yer  meddlin  fist  out  o'  that!' 
he  said.  *  Father  ain't  coming,  and  if  he 
wor,  I  'spect  I  could  manage  the  two  on 
yer  —  Keowntin  it  — '  he  mimicked  her. 
'  Oh  !  yer  a  precious  innercent,  ain't  yer  } 
But  I  know  all  about  yer.  Bless  yer,  I've 
been  in  at  the  "Spotted  Deer"  to-night, 
and  there  worn't  nothin  else  talked  of  but 
yo  and  yor  goins-on.  There  won't  be  a 
tongue  in  the  place  to-morrow  that  won't 
be  a-waggin  about  yer  —  yur  a  public 
charickter,  yo  are — they'll  be  sendin  the 
reporters  down  on  yer  for  a  hintcrview. 
"  Where  the  devil  do  she  get  the  money.''  " 
they  says.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  85 

He  threw  his  curly  head  back  and 
laughed  till  his  sides  shook. 

'Lor,  I  didn't  think  I  wor  going  to 
know  quite  so  soon !  An  sich  queer  'arf- 
crowns,  they  ses,  as  she  keeps  a-changin. 
Jarge  somethin  —  an  old  cove  in  a  wig. 
An  'ere  they  is,  I'll  be  blowed,  —  some 
on  'em.     Well,  yer  a  nice  'un,  yer  are!' 

He  stared  her  up  and  down  with  a  kind 
of  admiration. 

Bessie  began  to  cry  feebly  —  the  crying 
of  a  lost  soul. 

'  Tim,  if  yer'll  go  away  an  hold  yer 
tongue,  I'll  give  yer  five  o'  them  suverins, 
and  not  tell  yer  father  nothin.' 

'  Five  on  'em  ? '  he  said,  grinning.  '  Five 
on  'em,  eh .-'' 

And  dipping  his  hands  into  the  box  he 
began  deliberately  shovelling  the  whole 
hoard  into  his  trousers  and  waistcoat 
pocket. 


86  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Bessie  flung  herself  upon  him.  He 
gave  her  one  busincssHke  bh)\v  which 
knocked  her  down  against  the  bedroom 
door.  The  door  yielded  to  her  fall,  and 
she  lay  there  half  stunned,  the  blood  drip- 
ping from  her  temple. 

'  Noa,  I'll  not  take  'em  all,'  he  said,  not 
even  troubling  to  look  where  she  had 
fallen.  'That  'ud  be  playing  it  rayther 
too  low  down  on  old  John.  I'll  leave  'im 
two- — -jest  two — 'for  luck.' 

He  buttoned  up  his  coat  tightly,  then 
turned  to  throw  a  last  glance  at  Bessie. 
He  had  always  disliked  his  father's  sec- 
ond wife,  and  his  sense  of  triumph  was 
boundless. 

'Oh!  yer  not  hurt,'  he  said  ;  'yer  sham- 
min.  I  advise  yer  to  look  sharp  with 
shuttin  up.  Father'll  be  up  the  hill  in 
two  or  three  minutes  now.  Sorry  I  can't 
'elp  yer,  now  yer've  set  me  up  so  com- 
fortabul.     Bye-bye ! ' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  87 

He  ran  down  the  stairs.  She,  as  her 
senses  revived,  heard  him  open  the  back 
door,  cross  the  little  garden,  and  jump  the 
hedge  at  the  end  of  it. 

Then  she  lay  absolutely  motionless,  till 
suddenly  there  struck  on  her  ear  the  dis- 
stant  sound  of  heavy  steps.  They  roused 
her  like  a  goad.  She  dragged  herself  to 
her  feet,  shut  the  box,  had  just  time  to 
throw  it  into  the  cupboard  and  lock  the 
door,  when  she  heard  her  husband  walk 
into  the  kitchen.  She  crept  into  her 
own  room,  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  and 
wrapped  her  head  and  eyes  in  an  old 
shawl,  shivering  so  that  the  mattresses 
shook. 

'  Bessie,  where  are  yer .'' ' 

She  did  not  answer.  He  made  a  sound 
of  astonishment,  and,  finding  no  candle, 
took  the  lamp  and  mounted  the  stairs. 
They  were  covered  with  traces  of  muddy 


88  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

snow,  and  at  the  top  he  stooped  to  ex- 
amine a  spot  u{)on  tlie  boards.  It  was 
blood  ;  and  his  heart  thumped  in  his 
breast. 

'Bessie,  whatever  is  the  matter  } ' 

For  by  this  time  he  had  perceived  her 
on  the  bed.  He  put  down  the  lamp  and 
came  to  the  bedside  to  look  at  her. 

'  I've  'ad  a  fall,'  she  said,  faintly.  '  I 
tripped  up  over  my  skirt  as  I  wor  comin 
up  to  look  at  Arthur.  My  head's  all 
bleedin.  Get  me  some  water  from  over 
there,' 

His  countenance  fell  sadly.  But  he  got 
the  water,  exclaiming  when  he  saw  the 
wound. 

He  bathed  it  clumsily,  then  tied  a  bit  of 
rag  round  it,  and  made  her  head  easy  with 
the  pillow.  She  did  not  speak,  and  he  sat 
on  beside  her,  looking  at  her  pale  face,  and 
torn,  as  the  silent  minutes  passed,  between 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  89 

conflicting  impulses.  He  had  just  passed 
an  hour  listening  to  a  good  man's  plain  nar- 
rative of  a  life  spent  for  Christ,  amid  fever- 
swamps,  and  human  beings  more  deadly 
still.  *  The  Vicar's  friend  was  a  missiona''y 
bishop,  and  a  High  Churchman  ;  Isaac,  as 
a  staunch  Dissenter  by  conviction  and 
inheritance,  thought  ill  both  of  bishops 
and  Ritualists.  Nevertheless  he  had  been 
touched  ;  he  had  been  fired.  Deep,  though 
often  perplexed  instincts  in  his  own  heart 
had  responded  to  the  spiritual  passion  of 
the  speaker.  The  religious  atmosphere  had 
stolen  about  him,  melting  and  subduing. 

And  the  first  effect  of  it  had  been  to 
quicken  suddenly  his  domestic  conscience ; 
to  make  him  think  painfully  of  Bessie  and 
the  children  as  he  climbed  the  hill.  Was 
his  wife  going  the  way  of  his  son .''  And 
he,  sitting  day  after  day  like  a  dumb  dog, 
instead  of  striving  with  her  ! 


90  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

He  made  up  his  mind  Inin-icdly.  'Bes- 
sie,' he  said,  stooping  to  her  and  speaking 
in  a  strange  voice,  'Bessie,  had  yer  been 
to  Dawson's  ?' 

Dawson  was  the  landlord  of  the  '  Spotted 
Deer.' 

Bessie  was  long  in  answering.  At  last 
she  said,  almost  inaudibly, 

'Yes.' 

She  fully  understood  what  he  had  meant 
by  the  question,  and  she  wondered  whether 
he  would  fall  into  one  of  his  rages  and  beat 
her. 

Instead  his  hand  sought  clumsily  for 
hers. 

'Bessie,  yer  shouldn't;  yer  mustn't  do 
it  no  more ;  it'll  make  a  bad  woman  of 
yer.  I  know  as  I'm  not  good  to  live 
with  ;  I  don't  make  things  pleasant  to 
yer;  but  I've  been  thinkin ;  I'll  try  if 
yo'U  try.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  91 

Bessie  burst  into  tears.  It  seemed  as 
though  her  life  were  breaking  within  her. 
Never  since  their  early  married  days  had 
he  spoken  to  her  like  this.  And  she  was 
in  such  piteous  need  of  comfort ;  of  some 
strong  hand  to  help  her  out  of  the  black 
pit  in  which  she  lay.  The  wild  impulse 
crossed  her  to  sit  up  and  tell  him  —  to 
throw  it  all  on  Timothy,  to  show  him  the 
cupboard  and  the  box.  Should  she  tell 
him  ;  brave  it  all  now  that  he  was  like 
this .''  Between  them  they  might  find  a 
way  —  make  it  good. 

Then  the  thought  of  the  man  in  the  pub- 
lic-house, of  the  half-crowns,  a  host  of  con- 
fused and  guilty  memories,  swept  upon  her. 
How  could  she  ever  get  herself  out  of  it .-' 
Her  heart  beat  so  that  it  seemed  a  live 
creature  strangling  and  silencing  her.  She 
was  still  fighting  with  her  tears  and  her 
terror  when  she  heard  Isaac  say  : 


92  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

'  I  know  ycr'll  try,  and  I'll  help  ycr.  I'll 
be  a  better  husband  to  yer,  I  swear  I  will. 
Give  us  a  kiss,  old  woman.' 

She  turned  her  face,  sobbing,  and  he 
kissed  her  cheek. 

Then  she  heard  him  say  in  another  tone  : 
'An  I  got  a  bit  o'  news  down  at  the  club 
as  will  liven  yer  up.     Parkinson  wsls  there  ; 
just  come  over  from   Frampton  to  see  his 
mother ;  an  he  says  John  will  be  here  to- 
morrcr  or  next  day.      'Ee  seed  him  yester- 
day —  pulled  down  dreadful  —  quite  the  old 
man,  'ee  says.    An  John  told  him  as  he  was 
comin  'ome  directly  to  live  comfortable.' 
Bessie  drew  her  shawl  over  her  head. 
'  To-morrer,  did  yer  say  ? '  she  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

'  Mos  like.  Now  you  go  to  sleep ;  I'll 
put  out  the  lamp.' 

But  all  night  long  Bessie  lay  wide  awake 
in  torment,  her  soul  hardening  within  her, 
little  by  little. 


^ 


SCENE   IV 


SCENE   IV 

Just  before  dark  on  the  following  day, 
a  man  descended  from  a  down  train  at  the 
Clinton  Magna  station.  The  porters  knew 
him  and  greeted  him  ;  so  did  one  or  two 
labourers  outside,  as  he  set  off  to  walk  to 
the  village,  which  was  about  a  mile  distant. 

'Well,  John,  so  yer  coom  back,'  said 
one  of  them,  an  old  man,  grasping  the 
newcomer  by  the  hand.  'An  I  can't  say 
as  yer  looks  is  any  credit  to  Frampton  — 
no,  that  aa  can't.'  ,' 

John,  indeed,  wore  a  sallow  and  pinched 
air,  and  walked  lamely,  with  a  stick. 

'Noa,'  he  said  peevishly;  'it's  a  beastly 
place  is  Frampton  ;  a  damp,  nassty  hole  as 
iver  I  saw — gives  yer  the  rheumaticks  to 

95 


96  The  Story  of   Bessie   Costrell 

look  at  it.  I've  'ad  a  doosc  of  a  time,  I 
'ave,  I  can  tell  ycr  —  ivcr  sense  I  went. 
But  I'll  pull  up  now.' 

'Aye,  this  air'll  do  yer,'  said  the  other. 
'  Where  are  yer  stoppin  ?     Costrells' .'' ' 

John  nodded. 

'  They  don't  know  nothin  about  my 
comin,  but  I  dessay  they'll  find  me  some- 
thin  to  sleep  on.  I'll  'ave  my  own  place 
soon,  and  someone  to  look  arter  it.' 

He  drew  himself  up  involuntarily,  with 
the  dignity  that  waits  on  property.  A 
laugh,  rather  jeering  than  cordial,  ran 
through  the  group  of  labourers. 

'Aye,  yer'll  be  livin  at  your  ease,'  said 
the  man  who  had  spoken  first.  '  When 
will  yo  give  us  a  drink,  yer  lardship  ? ' 

m 

The  others  grinned. 

'  Where's  your  money,  John  .'' '  said  a 
younger  man  suddenly,  staring  hard  at 
the  returned  wanderer. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  97 

John  started, 

'  Don't  you  talk  your  nonsense  ! '  he  said 
fretfully;  'an  I  must  be  getting  on,  afore 
dark.' 

He  went  his  way,  but  as  he  turned  a 
corner  of  the  road,  he  saw  them  still  stand- 
ing where  he  had  left  them.  They  seemed 
to  be  watching  his  progress,  which  aston- 
ished him. 

A  light  of  windy  sunset  lay  spread  over 
the  white  valley,  and  the  freshening  gusts 
drove  the  powdery  snow  before  them,  and 
sent  little  stabs  of  pain  through  John's 
shrinking  body.  Yet  how  glad  he  was  to 
find  himself  again  between  those  familiar 
hedges,  to  see  the  church-tower  in  front 
of  him,  the  long  hill  to  his  right !  His 
heart  swelled  at  once  with  longing  and 
satisfaction.  During  his  Frampton  job, 
and  in  the  infirmary,  he  had  suffered 
much,  physically  and   mentally.     He   had 

H 


98  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

missed  Eliza  and  the  tendance  of  years 
more  than  he  had  ever  imagined  he  could  ; 
and  he  had  found  himself  too  old  for  new 
faces  and  a  new  society.  When  he  fell  ill 
he  had  been  sorely  tempted  to  send  for 
some  of  his  money,  and  get  himself  nursed 
and  cared  for  at  the  respectable  lodging 
where  he  had  put  up.  But  no  ;  in  the  end 
he  set  his  teeth  and  went  into  the  infirm- 
ary. He  had  planned  not  to  touch  his 
hoard  till  he  had  done  with  the  Frampton 
job,  and  returned  to  Clinton  for  good. 

His  peasant  obstinacy  could  not  endure 
to  be  beaten  ;  nor,  indeed,  could  he  bring 
himself  to  part  with  his  keys,  to  trust  the 
opening  of  the  hoard  even  to  Isaac. 

Since  then  he  had  passed  through  many 
weary  weeks,  sometimes  of  acute  pain, 
sometimes  of  sinking  weakness,  during 
which  he  had  been  haunted  by  many 
secret    torments,    springing    mainly   from 


The  Story  of   Bessie   Costrell  99 

the  fear  of  death.  He  had  ahnost  been 
driven  to  make  his  will.  But  in  the  end 
superstitious  reluctance  prevailed.  He 
had  not  made  the  will ;  and  to  dwell  on 
the  fact  gave  him  the  sensation  of  having 
escaped  a  bond,  if  not  a  danger.  He  did 
not  want  to  leave  his  money  behind  him  ; 
he  wanted  to  spend  it,  as  he  had  told  Eliza 
and  Mary  Anne  and  Bessie  scores  of 
times.  To  have  assigned  it  to  anyone 
else,  even  after  his  death,  would  have 
made  it  less  his  own. 

Ah,  well !  those  bad  weeks  were  done, 
and  here  he  was,  at  home  again.  Sud- 
denly, as  he  tramped  on,  he  caught  sight 
against  the  hill  of  Bessie's  cottage,  the 
blue  smoke  from  it  blown  across  the  rime- 
laden  trees  behind  it.  He  drew  in  his 
breath  with  a  deep,  tremulous  delight. 
That  buoyant  self-congratulation  indeed 
which    had    stood   between    him    and    the 


loo  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

pain  of  Eliza's  death  was  gone.  Rather 
there  was  in  him  a  profound  yearning  for 
rest,  for  long  dreaming  by  the  fire  or  in 
the  sun,  with  his  pipe  to  smoke,  and  Jim's 
Louisa  to  look  after  him,  and  nothing  to 
do  but  to  draw  a  half-crown  from  his  box 
when  he  wanted  it.  No  more  hard  work 
in  rain  and  cold  ;  and  no  cringing,  either, 
to  the  young  and  prosperous  for  the  mere 
fault  of  age.  The  snowy  valley  with  its 
circling  woods  opened  to  him  like  a 
mother's  breast  ;  the  sight  of  it  filled 
him  with  a  hundred  simple  hopes  and 
consolations ;  he  hurried  to  bury  himself 
in  it,  and  be  at  peace. 

He  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
first  house  in  the  village,  when  he  saw  a 
tall  figure  in  uniform  approaching,  and 
recognised  Watson. 

At  sight  of  him  the  policeman  stopped 
short,  and  John  was    conscious    of  a  mo- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  loi 

raent's  vague  impression  of  something 
strange  in  Watson's  looks. 

However,  Watson  shook  hands  with 
great  friendhness. 

'Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  yer,  John,  I'm 
sure.  An  now,  I  s'pose,  you're  back  for 
good .'' ' 

'Aye.  I'm  not  going  away  no  more. 
I've  done  my  share  —  I  wants  a  bit  o' 
rest.' 

'  Of  coorse  yer  do.  You've  been  ill, 
'aven't  yer .-'  You  look  like  it.  An  yer 
puttin  up  at  Costrells'  ? ' 

'Yes,  till  I  can  turn  round  a  bit.  'Ave 
yer  seen  anythin  ov  'em  ?     'Ow's  Bessie  .-* ' 

Watson  faced  back  towards  the  village. 

'I'll  walk  with  yer  a  bit  —  I'm  in  no 
'urry.  Oh,  she's  all  right.  You  'eard  of 
her  bit  o'  money  ? ' 

John  opened  his  eyes. 

'  Noa,  I  don  know  as  I  did.' 


I02  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

'It  wor  an  aunt  o'  hers,  soa  I  understan 
—  quite  a  good  bit  o'  money.' 

'  Did  yer  iver  hear  the  name  ? '  said 
John  eagerly. 

'  Someone  hvin  at  Bedford,  I  did  'ear 
say.' 

John  laughed,  not  without  good-hu- 
moured relief.  It  would  have  touched 
his  vanity  had  his  niece  been  discovered 
to  be  richer  than  himself. 

*  Oh,  that's  old  Sophy  Clarke,'  he  said. 
'  Her  'usband  bought  the  lease  o'  two  little 
'ouses  in  Church  Street,  and  they  braat 
'er  in  six  shillins  a  week  for  years,  an  she 
alius  said  she'd  leave  it  to  Bessie  if  she 
wor  took  afore  the  lease  wor  up.  But  the 
lease  ull  be  up  end  o'  next  year  I  know, 
for  I  saw  the  old  lady  myself  last  Michael- 
mas twelvemonth,  an  she  told  me  all  about 
it,  though  I  worn't  to  tell  nobody  meself. 
An  I  didn't  know  Sophy  wor  gone.     Ah, 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  103 

well !    it's   not   much,  but  it's  'andy  —  it's 
'andy.' 

*  Six  shillins  a  week ! '  said  Watson, 
raising  his  eyebrows.  '  It's  a  nice  bit  o' 
money  while  it  lassts,  but  I'd  ha  thought 
Mrs.  Costrell  'ad  come  into  a  deal  more 
nor  that.' 

*  Oh,  but  she's  sich  a  one  to  spend,  is 
Bessie,'  said  John  anxiously.  '  It's  sur- 
prisin  'ow  the  money  runs.  It's  sixpence 
'ere,  an  sixpence  there,  alius  dribblin,  an 
dribblin,  out  ov  'er.  I've  alius  tole  'er  as 
she'll  end  'er  days  on  the  parish.' 

'  Sixpences  !  '  said  Watson,  with  a  laugh. 
'  It's  not  sixpences  as  Mrs.  Costrell's  'ad 
the  spendin  of  this  last  month  or  two  — 
it's  snvcrins  —  an  plenty  ov  'em.  You 
may  be  sure  you've  got  the  wrong  tale 
about  the  money,  John  ;  it  wor  a  deal 
more   nor  you  say.' 

John  stood  stock-still  at  the  word  '  sov- 
ereigns,' his  jaw  dropping. 


I04  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

'  Suverins^  he  said  trembling  ;  '  suv- 
erins?  Bessie  ain't  got  no  suvcrins.  Isaac 
arns  sixteen  shillin  a  week.' 

The  colour  was  ebbing  fast  from  his 
cheek  and  lips.  Watson  threw  him  a 
quick  professional  glance,  then  rapidly 
consulted  with  himself.  No  ;  he  decided 
to  hold  his  tongue. 

'Yo  are  reg'lar  used  up,'  he  said,  taking 
hold  of  the  old  fellow  kindly  by  the  arm. 
*  Shall  I  walk  yer  up  the  hill }  ' 

John  withdrew  himself, 

'  Suvcri}is  !'  he  repeated,  in  a  low  hoarse 
voice.  '  She  ain't  got  'em,  I  tell  yer —  she 
ain't  got  'em  ! ' 

The  last  words  rose  to  a  sort  of  cry, 
and  without  another  word  to  Watson  the 
old  man  started  at  a  feeble  run,  his  head 
hanging. 

Watson  followed  him,  afraid  lest  he 
should   drop    in  the  road.     Instead,  John 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  105 

seemed  to  gather  strength.  He  made 
straight  for  the  hill,  taking  no  heed  what- 
ever of  two  or  three  startled  acquaintances 
who  stopped  and  shouted  to  him.  When 
the  ground  began  to  rise,  he  stumbled 
again  and  again,  but  by  a  marvel  did  not 
fall,  and  his  pace  hardly  slackened.  Wat- 
son had  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  him. 
But  when  the  policeman  reached  his 
own  cottage  on  the  side  of  the  road,  he 
stopped,  panting,  and  contented  himself 
with  looking  after  the  mounting  figure. 
As  soon  as  it  turned  the  corner  of  the 
Costrells'  lane,  he  went  into  his  own 
house,  said  a  word  to  his  wife,  and  sat 
himself  down  at  his  own  back  door  to 
await  events — to  ponder,  also,  a  few  con- 
versations he  had  held  that  morning,  with 
Mrs.  Moulsey  at  'the  shop,'  with  Dawson, 
with  Hall  the  butcher.  Poor  old  John  — 
poor  old  fellow ! 


io6  The  Story  of  Bessie  CostrcU 

When  Boklerficld  reached  the  paling  in 
front  of  the  Costrells'  cottage,  he  paused 
a  moment,  holding  for  support  to  the  half- 
open  gate  and  struggling  for  breath.  '  I 
must  keep  my  'edd,  I  must,'  he  was  saying 
to  himself  piteously  ;  'don  yer  be  a  fool, 
John  Borroful,  don't  ycr  be  a  fool  1' 

As  he  stood  there,  a  child's  face  pushed 
the  window-blind  of  the  cottage  aside,  and 
the  lame  boy's  large  eyes  looked  Bolder- 
field  up  and  down.  Immediately  after, 
the  door  opened,  and  all  four  children 
stood  huddling  behind  each  other  on  the 
threshold.  They  all  looked  shyly  at  the 
newcomer.  They  knew  him,  but  in  six 
months  they  had  grown  strange   to   him. 

'  Arthur,  where's  your  mother  ? '  said 
John,  at  last  able  to  walk  firmly  up  to 
the  door. 

'  Don  know.' 

'  When  did  yer  see  her  lasst  .-*' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  107 

'  She  wor  'ere  gettin  us  our  tea,'  said 
another  child  ;   '  but  she  didn't  eat  nothin.' 

John  impatiently  pushed  the  children 
before  him  back  into  the  kitchen. 

'You  'old  your  tongues,'  he  said,  'an 
stay  'ere.' 

And  he  made  for  the  door  in  the 
kitchen  wall.  But  Arthur  caught  hold  of 
his  coat  tails  and  clung  to  them, 

'  Yer  oughtn't  to  go  up  there  —  mother 
don't  let  anyone  go  there.' 

John  wrenched  himself  violently  away. 

'  Oh  don't  she  !  yo  take  your  'ands  away, 
yer  little  varmint,  or  I'll  brain  yer.' 

He  raised  his  stick,  threatening.  The 
child,  terrified,  fell  back,  and  John,  open- 
ing the  door,  rushed  up  the  stairs. 

He  was  so  terribly  excited  that  his 
fumbling  fingers  could  hardly  find  the 
ribbon  round  his  neck.  At  last  he  drew 
it   over   his    head,   and   made   stupendous 


io8  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

efforts  to  steady  his  hand  sufficiently  to 
put   the  key   in  the  lock. 

The  children  below  heard  a  sharp  cry 
directly  the  cujiboard  door  was  opened ; 
then  the  frantic  dragging  of  a  box  on  to 
the  stairs,  the  creak  of  hinges  —  a  groan 
long  and  lingering  —  and  then  silence. 

They  clung  together  in  terror,  and  the 
little  girls  began  to  cry.  At  last  Arthur 
took  courage  and  opened  the  door. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  on  the  top 
stair,  supported  sideways  by  the  wall,  his 
head  hanging  forward,  and  his  hands  drop- 
ping over  his  knees,  in  a  dead  faint. 

At  the  sight  all  four  children  ran 
helter-skelter  into  the  lane,  shouting 
'  Mammy  !  mammy  !  '  in  an  anguish  of 
fright.  Their  clamour  was  caught  by  the 
fierce  north  wind,  which  had  begun  to 
sweep  the  hill,  and  was  borne  along  till  it 
reached  the  ears  of  a  woman  who  was  sit- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  109 

ting  sewing  in  a  cottage  some  fifty  yards 
further  up  the  lane.  She  stepped  to  her 
door,  opened  it  and  listened. 

'  It's  at  Bessie's,'  she  said ;  '  whativer's 
wrong  wi'  the  childer.-'' 

By  this  time  Arthur  had  begun  to  run 
towards  her.  Darkness  was  falling  rap- 
idly, but  she  could  distinguish  his  small  fig- 
ure against  the  snow,  and  his  halting  gait. 

'  What  is  it,  Arthur  ?  —  what  is  it, 
lammie .'' ' 

'  O  cousin  Mary  Anne !  cousin  Mary 
Anne  !     It's  uncle  John,  an  'ee's  dead ! ' 

She  ran  like  the  wind  at  the  words, 
catching  at  the  child's  hand  in  the  dark, 
and  dragging  him  along  with  her. 

'Where  is  he,  Arthur.''  —  don't  take  on, 
honey ! ' 

The  child  hurried  on  with  her,  sobbing, 
and  she  was  soon  on  the  stairs  beside  the 
unconscious  John. 


I  lo  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Mary  Anne  looked  with  amazement  at 
the  cupboard  and  the  open  box.  Then 
she  laid  the  old  man  on  the  floor,  her 
gentle  face  working  with  the  effort  to 
remember  what  the  doctor  had  once  told 
her  of  the  best  way  of  dealing  with  per- 
sons in  a  faint.  She  got  water,  and  she 
sent  Arthur  to  a  neighbour  for  brandy. 

'Where's  your  mother,  child.'*'  she 
asked,  as  she  despatched  him. 

'  Don  know,'  repeated  the  boy,  stupidly. 

'  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  she's  never  at 
Dawson's  again ! '  groaned  Mary  Anne 
to  herself ;  '  she  wor  there  last  night,  an 
the  night  afore  that.  And  her  mother's 
brother  lyin  like  this  in  'er  house  ! ' 

He  was  so  long  in  coming  round  that 
her  ignorance  began  to  fear  the  worst. 
But  just  as  she  was  telling  the  eldest  girl 
to  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket  and  run  for 
the  doctor,  poor  John  revived. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  1 1 1 

He  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture, 
looked  wildly  at  her  and  at  the  box.  As 
his  eye  caught  the  two  sovereigns  still 
lying  at  the  bottom,  he  gave  a  cry  of 
rage,  and  got  upon  his  feet  with  a  mighty 
effort. 

'  Where's  Bessie,  I  tell  yer  ?  Where's 
the  huzzy  gone  ?  I'll  have  the  law  on 
'er !  I'll  make  'er  give  it  up  —  by  the 
Lord  I  will!' 

'John,  what  is  it.?  —  John,  my  dear!' 
cried  Mary  Anne,  supporting  him,  and 
terrified  lest  he  should  pitch  headlong 
down  the  stairs. 

'  Yo  'elp  me  down,'  he  said  violently. 
'We'll  find  'er  —  we'll  wring  it  out  ov  'er 
—  the  mean  thievin  vagabond!  Changin 
suverins,  'as  she.?  we'll  soon  know  about 
that  —  yo  'elp  me  down,  I  tell  yer.' 

And  with  her  assistance  he  hobbled 
down   the    stairs,    hardly   able    to    stand. 


112  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

Mary  Anne's  eyes  were  starting  out  of 
her  head  with  fear  and  agitation,  and  the 
children  were  staring  at  the  old  man  as 
he  eame  tottering  into  the  kitchen,  when 
a  sound  at  the  outer  door  made  them 
all  turn. 

The  door  opened,  and  Bessie  appeared 
on  the  threshold. 

At  sight  of  her  John  seemed  to  lose 
his  senses.  He  rushed  at  her,  threaten- 
ing, imploring,  reviling  —  while  Mary  Anne 
could  only  cling  to  his  arms  and  coat,  lest 
he  should  attempt  some  bodily  mischief. 

Bessie  closed  the  door,  leant  against  it, 
and  folded  her  arms.  She  was  white  and 
haggard,  but  perfectly  cool.  In  this  mo- 
ment of  excitement  it  struck  neither  John 
nor  Mary  Anne  —  nor,  indeed,  herself  — 
that  her  manner,  with  its  brutality,  and 
its  poorly  feigned  surprise,  was  the  most 
revealing  element  in  the  situation. 

'  What's  all  this  about  yer  money  ? '  she 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  1 1 3 

said,  staring  John  in  the  face.  '  What  do 
I  know  about  yer  money  ?  'Ovv  dare  yer 
say  such  things  ?  I  'aven't  anythin  to  do 
with  it,  an  never  'ad.' 

He  raved  at  her,  in  reply,  about  the 
position  in  which  he  had  found  the  box 
—  on  the  top  of  its  fellow  instead  of 
underneath,  where  he  had  placed  it  — 
about  the  broken  lock,  the  sovereigns 
she  had  been  changing,  and  the  things 
Watson  had  said  of  her  —  winding  up  with 
a  peremptory  demand  for  his  money. 

•  Yo  gi  me  my  money  back,'  he  said, 
holding  out  a  shaking  hand.  '  Yer  can't 
'ave  spent  it  all  —  tain't  possible  —  an  yer 
ain't  chucked  it  out  o'  winder.  Yer've 
got  it  somewhere  'idden,  an  I'll  get  it  out 
o'  you  if  I  die  for  't ! ' 

Bessie  surveyed  him  steadily.  She  had 
not  even  flinched  at  the  mention  of  the 
sovereigns. 


114  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

'  What  yer  'avcn't  got,  yer  can't  give,' 
she  said.  '  I  don  know  nothin  about  it, 
an  I've  tole  yer.  There's  plenty  o'  bad 
people  in  the  world  —  beside  me.  Some- 
body came  in  o'  nights,  I  suppose,  an 
picked  the  lock  —  there's  many  as  'ud 
think  nothin  of  it.  And  it  'ud  be  easy 
done  —  we  all  sleeps  'ard.' 

'  Bessie! '  cried  Mary  Anne,  outraged  by 
something  in  her  tone,  'aren't  yer  sorry 
for  'im  ?' 

She  pointed  to  the  haggard  and  trem- 
bling man. 

Bessie  turned  to  her  reluctantly.  *  Aye, 
I'm  sorry,'  she  said  sullenly.  '  But  he 
shouldn't  fly  out  at  yer  without  'earin  a 
word.  'Ow  should  I  know  anythin  about 
his  money  .-'  'Ee  locked  it  up  hisself,  an 
tuk  the  keys.' 

'  An  them  suverins,'  roared  John,  rat- 
tling his  stick  on  the  floor ;  '  where  did 
yer  get  them  suverins.^ ' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  115 

*  I  got  'em  from  old  Sophy  Clarke  — 
leastways,  from  Sophy  Clarke's  lawyer. 
And  it  ain't  no  business  o'  yourn.' 

At  this  John  fell  into  a  frenzy,  shout- 
ing at  her  in  inarticulate  passion,  calling 
her  liar  and  thief. 

She  fronted  it  with  perfect  composure. 
Her  fine  eyes  blazed,  but  otherwise  her 
face  miirht  have  been  a  waxen  mask. 
With  her,  in  this  scene,  was  all  the  tragic 
dignity  ;  with  him,  the  weakness  and  vul- 
garity. 

At  last  the  little  widow  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  and  drew  her  from  the  door. 

'  Let  me  take  'im  to  my  place,'  she 
pleaded  :  '  it's  no  good  talkin  while  'ec's 
like  'ee  is  —  not  a  bit  o'  good.  John  — 
John  dear  !  you  come  along  wi  me.  Shall 
I  get  Saunders  to  come  an  speak  to  yer.-*' 

A  gleam  of  sudden  hope  shot  into  the 
old  man's  face.     He  had  not  thought  of 


Ii6  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Saunders ;  but  Saunders  had  a  head  ;  he 
might  unravel  this  accursed  thing. 

'  Aye  !  '  he  said,  lurching  forward,  '  let's 
find  Saunders  —  coom  along  —  let's  find 
Saunders.' 

Mary  Anne  guided  him  through  the 
door,  Bessie  standing  aside.  As  the  widow 
passed,  she  touched  Bessie  piteously. 

'  O  Bessie,  yer  didiit  do  it  —  say  yer 
didn't !  ' 

Bessie  looked  at  her  dry-eyed  and  con- 
temptuous. Something  in  the  speaker's 
emotion  seemed  to  madden  her. 

'Don't  yer  be  a  fool,  Mary  Anne  — 
that's  all ! '  she  said  scornfully,  and  Mary 
Anne  fled  from  her. 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  them, 
Bessie  came  up  to  the  fire,  her  teeth  chat- 
tering. She  sank  down  in  front  of  it, 
spreading  out  her  hands   to  the   warmth. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  1 1 7 

The  children  silently  crowded  up  to  her ; 
first  she  pushed  them  away,  then  she 
caught  at  the  child  nearest  to  her,  pressed 
its  fair  head  against  her,  then  again 
roughly  put  it  aside.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  chatter  with  them,  scold  them 
and  slap  them  ;  but  to-night  they  were 
uneasily  dumb.  They  looked  at  her  with 
round  eyes ;  and  at  last  their  looks  an- 
noyed her.  She  told  them  to  go  to  bed, 
and  they  slunk  away,  gaping  at  the  open 
box  on  the  stairs,  and  huddling  together 
overhead,  all  on  one  bed,  in  the  bitter 
cold,  to  whisper  to  each  other.  Isaac 
•  was  a  stern  parent  ;  Bessie  a  capricious 
one  ;  and  the  children,  though  they  could 
be  riotous  enough  by  themselves,  were 
nervous  and  easily  cowed  at  home. 

Bessie,  left  alone,  sat  silently  over  the 
fire,  her  thin  lips  tight-set.  She  would 
deny  everything  —  everytJiing.     Let  them 


ii8  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

fiiul  out  what  they  could.  Who  could 
prove  what  was  in  John's  box  when  he 
left  it  ?  Who  could  prove  she  hadn't  got 
those  half-crowns  in  change  somewhere  ? 

The  reflection  of  the  day  had  only  filled 
her  with  a  passionate  and  fierce  regret. 
IV/ij/  had  she  not  followed  her  first  im- 
pulse, and  thrown  it  all  on  Timothy  .-*  — 
told  the  story  to  Isaac,  while  she  was 
still  bleeding  from  his  son's  violence .-'  It 
had  been  her  only  chance,  and  out  of 
pure  stupidness  she  had  lost  it.  To  have 
grasped  it  might  at  least  have  made  him 
take  Aer  part,  if  it  had  forced  him  to  give 
up  Timothy.  And  who  would  have  lis- 
tened to  Timothy's  tales  ? 

She  sickened  at  the  thought  of  her  own 
folly,  beating  her  knee  with  her  clenched 
fist.  For  to  tell  the  tale  now  would  only 
be  to  make  her  doubly  vile  in  Isaac's 
eyes.     He    would    not    believe    her  —  no 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  119 

one  would  believe  her.  What  motive 
could  she  plead  for  her  twenty-four  hours 
of  silence,  she  knowing  that  John  was 
coming  back  immediately  ?  Isaac  would 
only  hate  her  for  throwing  it  on  Timothy. 

Then  again  the  memory  of  the  half- 
crowns,  and  the  village  talk  —  and  Wat- 
son—  would  close  upon  her,  putting  her 
in  a  cold  sweat. 

When  would  Isaac  come .-'  Who  would 
tell  him  ?  As  she  looked  forward  to  the 
effect  upon  him,  all  her  muscles  stiffened. 
If  he  drove  her  to  it,  aye,  she  would 
tell  him  —  she  didn't  care  a  hap'orth,  she 
vowed.  If  he  must  have  it,  let  him. 
But  as  the  name  of  Isaac,  the  thought 
of  Isaac,  hovered  in  her  brain,  she  must 
needs  brush  away  wild  tears.  That  morn- 
ing, for  the  first  time  for  months,  he  had 
been  so  kind  to  her  and  the  children,  so 
chatty  and  cheerful. 


I20  Tlic  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Distant  steps  along  the  lane !  She 
sprang  to  her  feet,  ran  into  the  back 
kitchen,  tied  on  her  apron,  hastily  filled 
an  earthenware  bowl  with  water  from  the 
pump,  and  carrying  it  back  to  the  front 
kitchen  began  to  wash  up  the  tea-things, 
making  a  busy  househokl  clatter  as  she 
slid  them  into  the  bowl. 

A  confused  sound  of  feet  approached 
the  house,  and  there  was  a  knock. 

'Come  in,'  said  Bessie. 

Three  figures  appeared,  the  huge  form 
of  Saunders  the  smith  in  front,  John  and 
Mary  Anne  Waller  behind. 

Saunders  took  off  his  cap  politely.  The 
sight  of  his  bald  head,  his  double  chin, 
his  mouth  with  its  queer  twitch,  which 
made  him  seem  as  though  perpetually 
about  to  laugh,  if  he  had  not  perpet- 
ually thought  better  of  it,  filled  Bes- 
sie  with    angry   excitement.     She    barely 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  121 

nodded    to    him,    in    reply    to    his    greet- 


ing- 


*  May  we  come  in,  Mrs.  Costrell  ?  ' 
Saunders  enquired,  in  his  most  delib- 
erate voice. 

'  If  yer  want  to,'  said  Bessie  shortly, 
taking  out  a  cup  and  drying  it. 

Saunders  drew  in  the  other  two  and 
shut  the  door. 

'  Sit  down,  John.  Sit  down,  Mrs. 
Waller.' 

John  did  as  he  was  told.  Dishevelled 
and  hopeless  misery  spoke  in  his  stained 
face,  his  straggling  hair,  his  shirt  burst 
open  at  the  neck  and  showing  his 
wrinkled  throat.  But  he  fixed  his  eyes 
passionately  on  Saunders,  thirsting  for 
every  word. 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Costrell,'  said  Saunders, 
settling  himself  comfortably,  'you'll  be 
free    to    confess,   won't    yer,    this    is    an 


122  Tlic  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

oogly  business  — a  very  oogly  business? 
Now,  will  yer  let  us  ask  ycr  a  question 
or  two  ? ' 

'I  dessay,'  said  ]?essie,  polishing  her 
cup. 

'Well,  then — to  begin  reg'Iar,  Mrs. 
Costrell  —  yo  agree,  don't  yer,  as  Muster 
Bolderfield  put  his  money  in  your  up- 
stairs cupboard  ? ' 

'  I  agree  as  he  put  his  box  there,'  said 
Bessie  sharply. 

John  broke  into  inarticulate  and  abu- 
sive clamour.     Bessie  turned  upon  him. 

^'  'Ow  did  any  of  us  know  what  yer'd 
got  in  your  box  ?  Did  yer  ever  show  it 
to  me,  or  Mary  Anne  there,  or  any  livin 
soul  in  Clinton  ?     Did  yer.^  ' 

She  waited,  hawk-like,  for  the  answer. 

'  Did  yer,  John  ? '  repeated  Saunders, 
judicially. 

John  groaned,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  123 

'  Noa.  I  niver  did  —  I  niver  did,'  he 
said.  'Nobbut  to  Eliza  —  an  she's  gone 
—  she's  gone  !  ' 

'  Keep  your  'ead,  John,'  said  Saunders, 
putting  out  a  cahning  hand.  '  Let's  get 
to  the  bottom  o'  this,  quiet  an  rcg  lar.  An 
yer  didn't  tell  anyone  'ow  much  yer  'ad  1 ' 

*  Nobbut  Eliza  —  nobbut  Eliza  ! '  said  the 
old  man  again. 

'  Yer  didn't  tell  /uc;  I  know,'  said  Saun- 
ders blandly. 

John  seemed  to  shrink  together  under 
the  smith's  glance.  If  only  he  had  not 
been  a  jealous  fool,  and  had  left  it  with 
Saunders  ! 

Saunders,  however,  refrained  for  the 
present  from  drawing  this  self-evident 
moral.  He  sat  twirling  his  cap  between 
his  knees,  and  his  shrewd  eye  travelled 
round  the  kitchen,  coming  back  finally  to 
Bessie,  who  was  washing  and  drying  dili- 


124  I  he  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

gently.  As  he  watched  her  cool  move- 
ments Saunders  felt  the  presence  of  an 
enemy  worthy  of  his  steel,  and  his  emula- 
tion rose. 

'  I  understan,  Mrs.  Costrell,'  he  said, 
speaking  with  great  civility,  'as  the  cup- 
board where  John  put  his  money  is  a  cup- 
board hon  the  stairs .-'  Not  in  hany  room, 
but  Jion  the  stairs  }  Yer'Il  kindly  correck 
me  if  I  say  any  thin  wrong.' 

Bessie  nodded. 

*  Aye  —  top  o'  the  stairs  —  right-'and 
side,'  groaned  John. 

'  An  John  locked  it  hisself,  an  tuk  the 
key  .'' '  Saunders  proceeded. 

John  plucked  at  his  neck  again,  and, 
dumbly,  held  out  the  key. 

'An  there  worn't  nothin  wrong  wi  the 
lock  when  yo  opened  it,  John  } ' 

'  Nothin,  Muster  Saunders  —  I'll  take 
my  davy.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  125 

Saunders  ruminated. 

'  Theer's  a  cupboard  there,'  he  said  sud- 
denly, raising  his  hand  and  pointing  to 
the  cupboard  beside  the  fireplace.  '  Is't 
anythin  like  the  cupboard  on  th'  stairs, 
John  ? ' 

'  Aye,  'tis  ! '  said  John,  startled  and  star- 
ing.    '  Aye,  'tis,  Muster  Saunders  ! ' 

Saunders  rose. 

'Per'aps,'  he  said  slowly,  'Mrs.  Costrell 
will  do  us  the  favour  ov  lettin  us  hexamine 
that  'ere  cupboard  ? ' 

He  walked  across  to  it.  Bessie's  hand 
dropped ;  she  turned  sharply,  supporting 
herself  against  the  table,  and  watched  him, 
her  chest  heaving. 

'There's  no  key  'ere,'  said  Saunders, 
stooping  to  look  at  the  lock.  *  Try  yours, 
John.' 

John  rushed  forward,  but  Bessie  put 
herself  in  the  way. 


126  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

'  What  are  ycr  mcddlin  with  my  'ouse 
for?'  she  saitl  fiercely.  'Just  mek  your- 
selves scarce,  all  the  lot  o'  yer !  I  don't 
know  nothin  about  his  money,  an  I'll  not 
have  yer  insiiltin  me  in  my  own  place ! 
Get  out  o'  my  kitchen,  if  yo  please ! ' 

Saunders  buttoned  his  coat. 

'  Sartinly,  Mrs.  Costrell,  sartinly,'  he 
said  with  emphasis.  '  Come  along,  John. 
Yer  must  get  Watson  and  put  it  in  'is 
hands.  'Ee's  the  law  is  Watson.  Maybe, 
as  Mrs.  Costrell  ull  listen  to  '/;;/.' 

Mary  Anne  ran  to  Bessie  in  despair. 

'O  Bessie,  Bessie,  my  dear  —  don't  let 
'em  get  Watson  ;  let  'em  look  into  't  their- 
selves  —  it'll  be  better  for  yer,  my  dear,  it 
tvill.' 

Bessie  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
panting.  Then  she  turned  back  to  the 
table. 

'  /don  care  what  they  do,'  she  said,  with 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  127 

sullen  passion.  '  I'm  not  stannin  in  any- 
one's way,  I  tell  yer.  The  more  they  finds 
out  the  better  I'm  pleased.' 

The  look  of  incipient  laughter  on 
Saunders's  countenance  became  more  pro- 
nounced—  that  is  to  say,  the  left-hand  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth  twitched  a  little  higher. 
But  it  was  rare  for  him  to  complete  the  act, 
and  he  was  not  in  the  least  minded  to  do 
so  now.  He  beckoned  to  John,  and  John, 
trembling,  took  off  his  keys  and  gave  them 
to  him,  pointing  to  that  which  belonged  to 
the  treasure  cupboard. 

Saunders  slipped  it  into  the  lock  before 
him.  It  moved  with  ease,  backwards  and 
forwards. 

*H'm!  that's  strange,'  he  said,  taking 
out  the  key  and  turning  it  over  thought- 
fully in  his  hand.  '  Yer  didn't  think  as  there 
were  aiwtJicr  key  in  this  'ouse  that  would 
open  your  cupboard,  did  yer,  Bolderfield  } ' 


128  The  Story  nf   Bessie  Costrell 

The  old  man  sank  weeping  on  a  chair. 
He  was  too  broken,  too  exhausted,  to  revile 
Bessie  any  more. 

*  Yo  tell  her,  Muster  Saunders,'  he  said, 
'  to  gie  it  me  back  i  I'll  not  ast  for  all  on 
it,  but  some  on  it.  Muster  Saunders  — 
some  on  it.  She  caii t  a  spent  it.  She 
must  a  got  it  somewhere.  Yo  speak  to 
her,  Muster  Saunders.  It's  a  crule  thing 
to  rob  an  old  man  like  me  —  an  her  own 
mother's  brother.  Yo  speak  to  'er  —  an 
yo,  too,  Mary  Anne.' 

He  looked  piteously  from  one  to  the 
other.  But  his  misery  only  seemed  to 
goad  Bessie  to  fresh  fury.  She  turned 
upon  him,  arms  akimbo. 

'  Oh  !  an  of  course  it  must  be  me  as 
robs  yer !  It  couldn't  be  nobody  else, 
could  it }  There  isn't  tramps,  an  thieves, 
an  rogues  —  'undreds  of  'em  —  going 
about    o'    nights }      Nary    one,    I    believe 


Tlie  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  i  29 

yer !  There  isn't  another  thief  in  Clinton 
Magna,  nobbut  Bessie  Costrell,  is  ther  ? 
But  yer'll  not  blackguard  me  for  nothin,  I 
can  tell  yer.  Now  will  yer  jest  oblige  me 
by  takin  yourselves  off  ?  I  shall  'ave  to 
clean  up  after  yer '  —  she  pointed  scorn- 
fully to  the  marks  of  their  muddy  boots  on 
the  floor — 'an  it's  gettin  late.' 

'  One  moment,  Mrs.  Costrell,'  said 
Saunders,  gently  rubbing  his  hands. 
'With  your  leave,  John  and  I  ull  just 
inspeck  the  cupboard  /^///stairs  before 
leavin — an  then  we'll  clear  out  double 
quick.  But  we'll  'ave  one  try  if  we  can't 
'it  on  somethin  as  ull  show  'ow  the  thief 
got  in  —  with  your  leave,  of  coorse.' 

Bessie  hesitated  ;  then  she  threw  some 
spoons  she  held  into  the  water  beside  her 
with  a  violent  gesture. 

'  Go  where  yer  wants,'  she  said,  and 
returned  to  her  washing. 

K 


130  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Saunders  began  to  climl)  tlie  narrow- 
stairs,  with  John  behind  him.  ]?ut  the 
smith's  small  eyes  had  a  puzzled  look. 

*  There  somctJim  rum,'  he  said  to  him- 
self. ' 'Ow  <^/c/ she  spend  it  all  .^  'As  she 
been  carryin  on  with  someone  be'ind 
Isaac's  back,  or  is  Isaac  in  it  too }  It's 
one  or  t'other.' 

Meanwhile  Bessie,  left  behind,  was  con- 
sumed by  a  passionate  effort  of  memory. 
WJiat  had  she  done  with  the  key,  the 
night  before,  after  she  had  locked  the 
cupboard }  Her  brain  was  blurred. 
The  blow  —  the  fall  —  seemed  to  have 
confused  even  the  remembrance  of  the 
scene  with  Timothy.  How  was  it,  for 
instance,  that  she  had  jmt  the  box  back 
in  the  wrong  place  }  She  put  her  hand 
to  her  head,  trying  in  an  anguish  to  recol- 
lect the  exact  details. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  131 

The  little  widow  sat  meanwhile  a  few 
yards  away,  her  thin  hands  clasped  on  her 
lap  in  her  usual  attitude  of  humble  en- 
treaty ;  her  soft  grey  eyes,  brimmed  with 
tears,  were  fixed  on  Bessie.  Bessie  did 
not  know  that  she  was  there  —  that  she 
existed. 

The  door  had  closed  after  the  two  men. 
Bessie  could  hear  vague  movements,  but 
nothing  more.  Presently  she  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  She  went  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

She  was  just  in  time.  By  the  light  of 
the  bit  of  candle  that  John  held,  she  saw 
Saunders  sitting  on  the  stair,  the  shadow 
of  his  huge  frame  thrown  back  on  the 
white  wall ;  she  saw  him  stoop  suddenly, 
as  a  bird  pounces  ;  she  heard  an  exclama- 
tion—  then  a  sound  of  metal. 

Her  involuntary  cry  startled  the  men 
above. 


132  The  Story  of   l)cssie  Costrell 

'All  right,  Mrs.  Custrcll,'  said  Saumlcrs 
briskly  — '  all  right.  We'll  be  down  di- 
rectly.' 

She  came  back  into  the  kitchen,  a  mist 
before  her  eyes,  and  fell  heavily  on  a  chair 
by  the  fire.  Mary  Anne  approached  her, 
only  to  be  pushed  back.  The  widow 
stood  listening,   in  an  agony. 

It  took  Saunders  a  minute  or  two  lo 
complete  his  case.  Then  he  slowly  de- 
scended the  stairs,  carrying  the  box,  his 
great  weight  making  the  house  shake. 
He  entered  the  kitchen  first,  John  behind 
him.  But  at  the  same  moment  that  they 
appeared  the  outer  door  opened,  and  Isaac 
Costrell,  preceded  by  a  gust  of  snow, 
stood  on  the  threshold. 

'Why,  John  !'  he  cried,  in  amazement  — 
'  an  Saunders  !  ' 

He  looked  at  them,  then  at  Mary  Anne, 
then  at  his  wife. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  133 

There   was    an    instant's   dead   silence. 
Then  the  tottering  John  came  forward. 

'An  I'm  glad  yer  come,  Isaac,  that  I  am 
—  thankful !  Now  yer  can  tell  me  what 
yer  wife's  done  with  my  money.  D'yer 
mind  that  box  .^  It  wor  you  an  I  carried 
it  across  that  night  as  Watson  come  out 
on  us.  An  yo'll  bear  me  witness  as  we 
locked  it  up,  an  yo  saw  me  tie  the  two 
keys  roun  my  neck  —  yo  did,  Isaac.  An 
now,  Isaac' — the  hoarse  voice  began  to 
tremble  —  '  now  there's  two  —  suverins  — 
left,  and  one  'arf-crown  —  out  o'  seventy- 
one  pound  fower  an  sixpence  —  seventy- 
one  pound,  Isaac !  Yo'll  get  it  out  on  'er, 
Isaac,  yer  will,  won't  yer  } ' 

He  looked  up  imploring. 

Isaac,  after  the  first  violent  start,  stood 
absolutely  motionless,  Saunders  observing 
him.  As  one  of  the  main  props  of  Church 
Establishment    in    the    village,    Saunders 


134  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

had  no  great  opinion  of  Isaac  Costrcll, 
who  stood  for  the  dissidcncc  of  dissent. 
The  two  men  had  never  been  friends,  and 
Saunders  in  this  affair  had  perhaps  exer- 
cised the  quasi-judicial  functions  the  vil- 
lage had  long  by  common  consent  allowed 
him,  with  more  readiness  than  usual. 

As  soon  as  John  ceased  speaking,  Isaac 
walked  up  to  Saunders. 

'Let  me  see  that  box,'  he  said  peremp- 
torily, '  put  it  down.' 

Saunders,  who  had  rested  the  box  on 
the  back  of  a  chair,  placed  it  gently  on  the 
table,  assisted  by  Isaac.  A  few  feet  away 
stood  Bessie,  saying  nothing,  her  hand 
holding  the  duster  on  her  hip,  her  eyes 
following  her  husband. 

He  looked  carefully  at  the  two  sover- 
eigns lying  on  the  bit  of  old  cloth  which 
covered  the  bottom  of  the  box,  and  the 
one   half-crown  that  Timothy  had  forgot- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  135 

ten  ;  he  took  up  the  bit  of  cloth  and  shook 
it,  he  felt  along  the  edge  of  the  box,  he 
examined  the  wrenched  lock. 

Then  he  stood  for  an  instant,  his  hand 
on  the  box,  his  eyes  staring  straight  before 
him  in  a  kind  of  dream. 

Saunders  grew  impatient.  He  pushed 
John  aside,  and  came  to  the  table,  leaning 
his  hands  upon  it,  so  as  to  command 
Isaac's  face. 

'  Now  look  'ere,  Isaac,'  he  said,  in  a  dif- 
ferent voice  from  any  that  he  had  yet 
employed,  'let's  come  to  business.  These 
'ere  are  the  facks  o'  this  case,  an  'ow  we're 
a-goin  to  get  over  'em,  I  don  see.  John 
leaves  his  money  in  your  cupboard.  Yo 
an  he  lock  it  up,  an  John  goes  away  with 
'is  keys  'ung  roun  'is  neck.  Yo  agree  to 
that  ?  Well  and  good.  But  there's  c?;/- 
o///rr  key  in  your  'ouse,  Isaac,  as  opens 
John's  cupboard.     Ah — ■' 


136  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

He  waved  his  hand  in  dei)reeation  of 
Isaac's  movement. 

'  I  dessay  yo  didn't  know  nowt  about  it 

—  that's  noather  'ere  nor  there.  Yo  try 
John's  key  in  that  there  door'  —  he 
pointed  to  the  cupboard  by  the  fire  — • '  an 
yo'll  find  it  fits  r.r — act.  Then,  thinks  I, 
where's  the  key  as  belongs  to  that  'ere 
cupboard .''  An  John  an  I  goes  upstairs 
to  look  about  us,  an  in  noa  time  at  aw,  I 
sees  a  'ole  in  the  skirtin.  I  whips  in  my 
finger  —  lor  bless  yer !  I  knew  it  wor 
there  the  moment  I  sets  eyes  on  the 
hole.' 

He  held  up  the  key  triumphantly.  By 
this  time,  no  Old  Bailey  lawyer  making  a 
hanging  speech  could  have  had  more  com- 
mand of  his  task. 

''Ere  then  we  'ave '  —  he  checked  the 
items  off  on  his  fingers — 'box  locked  up 

—  key  in  the  'ouse  as  fits  it,  unbeknown 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  137 

to  John  —  money  tuk  out  —  key  'idden 
away.  But  that's  not  all  — not  by  long 
chalks  —  there's  another  side  to  the  affair 
//^/together.' 

Saunders  drew  himself  up,  thrust  his 
hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  cleared 
his  throat. 

'  Per'aps  yer  don  know  —  I'm  sartin 
sure  yer  don  know  —  leastways  I'm  hin- 
clined  that  way,  —  as  Mrs.  Costrell '  —  he 
made  a  polite  inclination  towards  Bessie 
—  ''ave  been  makin  free  with  money  — 
fower  —  five — night  a  week  at  the  "  Spot- 
ted Deer"  —  fower  —  five- — night  a  week. 
She'd  used  to  treat  every  young  feller,  an 
plenty  old  uns  too,  as  turned  up ;  an 
there  was  a  many  as  only  went  to  Daw- 
son's becos  they  knew  as  she'd  treat  'em. 
Now  she  didn't  go  on  tick  at  Dawson's ; 
she'd  pay,  —  an  she  alius  payed  in  'arf- 
crowns.     An  those  arf-crowns  were  'curous 


138  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrcll 

'arf-crowns ;  an  it  came  into  Dawson's 
'cad  as  he'd  colleck  them  'arf-crowns.  'Ec 
wanted  to  see  summat,  'ee  said  —  an  I  dcs- 
say  'ee  did.  An  people  began  to  taak. 
Last  night  theer  wor  a  bit  of  a  roompus, 
it  seems,  while  Mrs.  Costrell  was  a-payin 
another  o'  them  things,  an  summat  as  was 
said  come  to  my  ears  —  an  come  to  Wat- 
son's. An  me  and  Watson  'ave  been 
makin  enquiries  —  an  Mr.  Dawson  wor 
obligin  enough  to  make  me  a  small  loan, 
'ee  wor.  Now  I've  got  just  one  question  to 
ask  o'  John  Borroful.' 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  drew  out  a  silver  coin. 

'  Is  that  yourn,  John  ?  ' 

John  fell  upon  it  with  a  cry. 

'  Aye,  Saunders,  it's  mine.  Look  ye 
'ere,  Isaac,  it's  a  king's  'ead.  It's  Willum 
—  not  Victory.  I  saved  that  un  up  when 
I  wor  a  lad  at  Mason's,  an  look  yer,  there's 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  139 

my  mark  in  the  corner  —  every  'arf-crown 
I  ever  'ad  I   marked  hke  that.' 

He  held  it  under  Isaac's  staring  eyes, 
pointing  to  the  httle  scratched  cross  in 
the  corner. 

' 'Ere's  another,  John  —  two  on  'em,' 
said  Saunders,  pulhng  out  a  second  and 
a  third. 

John,  in  a  passion  of  hope,  identified 
them  both. 

'  Then,'  said  Saunders,  slapping  the 
table  solemnly,  'theer's  nobbut  one  more 
thing  to  say  —  an  sorry  I  am  to  say  it.  . 
Them  coins,  Isaac '  —  he  pointed  a  slow 
finger  at  Bessie,  whose  white,  fierce  face 
moved  involuntarily — 'them  'arf-crowns 
wor  paid  across  the  bar  lasst  night,  or  the 
night  afore,  at  Dawson's,  hy  yor  zuifc,  as  is 
now  stannin  there,  an  she'll  deny  it  if  she 
can  ! ' 

For   an    instant    the    whole    group    pre- 


140  The  Story  of   Bessie   Costrel 

served  their  positions  —  the  breath  sus- 
l)ended  on  their  Hps. 

Then  Isaac  strode  up  to  his  wife,  and 
gripped  her  by  the  arms. 

•  Did  yer  do  it  ? '  he  asked  her. 

He  held  her,  looking  into  her  eyes. 
Slowly  she  sank  away  from  him ;  she 
would  have  fallen,  but ,  for  a  chair  that 
stood  beside  her. 

'Oh,  yer  brute!'  she  said,  turning  her 
head  to  Saunders  an  instant,  and  speaking 
under  her  breath,  with  a  kind  of  sob. 
'Yer  bnitc!' 

Isaac  walked  to  the  door,  and  threw  it 
open. 

'  Per'aps  yer'll  go,'  he  said  grimly. 

And  the  three  went,  without  a  word. 


SCENE   V 


SCENE   V 

So  the  husband  and  wife  were  left 
together  in  the  cottage  room.  The  door 
had  no  sooner  closed  on  Saunders  and 
his  companions  than  Isaac  was  seized 
with  that  strange  sense  of  walking  amid 
things  unreal  upon  a  wavering  earth  which 
is  apt  to  beset  the  man  who  has  any  por- 
tion of  the  dreamer's  temperament,  under 
any  sudden  rush  of  circumstance.  He 
drew  his  hand  across  his  brow,  bewil- 
dered. The  fire  leapt  and  chattered  in 
the  grate ;  the  newly-washed  tea-things 
on  the  table  shone  under  the  lamp  ;  the 
cat  lay  curled,  as  usual,  on  the  chair 
where  he  sat  after  supper  to  read  his 
'Christian  World;'  yet  all  things  were 
not  the  same.     What  had  changed.-* 

143 


144  T"^''c  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

Then  across  poor  John's  rifled  box  he 
saw  his  wife  sitting  rigid  on  the  chair 
where  he  had  left  her. 

He  came  and  sat  down  at  the  corner 
of  the  table,  close  to  her,  his  chin  on  his 
hand. 

''Ovv  did  yer  spend  it .-''  he  said,  startled, 
as  the  words  came  out,  by  his  own  voice, 
so  grinding  and  ugly  was  the  note  of  it. 

Her  miserable  eyes  travelled  over  his 
face,  seeking,  as  it  were,  for  some  promise, 
however  faint,  of  future  help  and  succour, 
however  distant. 

Apparently  she  saw  none,  for  her  own 
look  flamed  to  fresh  defiance. 

'I  didn't  spend  it.      Saunders  wor  lyin.' 

''Ow  did  yer  get  them  half-crowns  ?' 

'  I  got  'em  at  Bedford.  Mr.  Grimstone 
give  'em  me.' 

Isaac  looked  at  her  hard,  his  shame 
burning   into    his    heart.     This    was    how 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  145 

she  had  got  her  money  for  the  gin.  Of 
course,  she  had  lied  to  him  the  night 
before,  in  her  account  of  her  fall,  and  of 
that  mark  on  her  forehead,  which  still 
showed,  a  red  disfigurement,  under  the 
hair  she  had  drawn  across  it.  The  sight 
of  it,  of  her,  began  to  excite  in  him  a 
quick  loathing.  He  was  at  bottom  a  man 
of  violent  passions,  and  in  the  presence 
of  evil-doing  so  flagrant,  so  cruel  —  of  a 
household  ruin  so  complete  —  his  religion 
failed  him. 

'  When  was  it  as  yer  opened  that  box 
fust  ? '  he  asked  her  again,  scorning  her 
denials. 

She  burst  into  a  rage  of  tears,  lifting 
her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  flinging  names 
at  him  that  he  scarcely  heard. 

There  was  a  little  cold  tea  in  a  cup 
close  to  him  that  Bessie  had  forgotten. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  took  a 
I. 


146  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

mouthful,  moistening"  his  dry  Hps  and 
throat. 

'  Yer'll  go  to  prison  for  tliis,'  he  said, 
jerking  it  out  as  he  put  the  cup  down. 

He  saw  her  shiver.  Ilcr  nerve  was 
faihng  her.  The  convulsive  sobs  con- 
tinued, but  she  ceased  to  abuse  him. 
He  wondered  when  he  should  be  able 
to  get  it  out  of  her.  He  himself  could 
no  more  have  wept  than  iron  and  fire 
weep. 

'  Are  yer  goin  to  tell  me  when  yer  took 
that  money,  and  'ow  yer  spent  it  ?  'Cos, 
if  yer  don't,  I  shall  go  to  Watson.' 

Even  in  her  abasement  it  struck  her 
as  shameful,  unnatural,  that  he,  her  hus- 
band, should  say  this.  Her  remorse  re- 
turned upon  her  heart,  like  a  tide  driven 
back.      She  answered  him  not  a  word. 

He  put  his  silver  watch  on  the  table. 

'  I'll  give  yer  two  minutes,'  he  said. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  147 

There  was  silence  in  the  cottage  except 
for  the  choking,  hysterical  sounds  she 
could  not  master.  Then  he  took  up  his 
hat  again,  and  went  out  into  the  snow, 
which  was  by  now  falling   fast. 

She  remained  helpTess  and  sobbing,  un- 
conscious of  the  passage  of  time,  one 
hand  playing  incessantly  with  a  child's 
comforter  that  lay  beside  her  on  the  table, 
the  other  wiping  away  the  crowding  tears. 
But  her  mind  worked  feverishly  all  the 
time,  and  gradually  she  fought  herself 
free  of  this  weeping,  which  clutched  her 
against  her  will. 

Isaac  was  away  for  an  hour.  When  he 
came  back,  he  closed  the  door  carefully, 
and,  walking  to  the  table,  threw  down 
his  hat  upon  it.  His  face  under  its  ruddy 
brown  had  suffered  some  radical  disin- 
tegrating change. 

'  They've  traced  yer,'  he  said  hoarsely  ; 


148  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

'they've  got  it  up  to  twenty-six  pound,  an 
more.  Most  on  it  'ere  in  Clinton  —  some 
on  it,  Muster  Miles  o'  Frampton  ull  swear 
to.  Watson  ull  go  over  to  Frampton,  for 
the  warrant  —  to-morrer.' 

The  news  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 
She  stared  at  him  wildly  —  speechless. 

'  But  that's  not  'arf,'  he  went  on  —  '  not 
near  'arf.  Do  yer  'ear .''  What  did  yer  do 
with  the  rest .''  Fll  not  answer  for  keepin 
my  'ands  off  yer  if  yer  won't  tell' 

In  his  trance  of  rage  and  agony,  he  was 
incapable  of  pity.  He  had  small  need  to 
threaten  her  with  blows  —  every  word 
stabbed. 

But  her  turn  had  come  to  strike  back. 
She  raised  her  head  ;  she  measured  her 
news  against  his  ;  and  she  did  it  with  a 
kind  of  exultation. 

'  Then  I  zvill  tell  yer  —  an  I  'ope  it  ull 
do  yer  good.     /  took  thirty-one  pound  o' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  149 

Bolderfield's  money  then  —  but  it  warn't 
me  took  the  rest.  Someone  else  tuk  it, 
an  I  stood  by  an  saw  'im.  When  I  tried 
to  stop  'im  —  look  'ere.' 

She  raised  her  hand,  nodding,  and  point- 
ins:  to  the  wound  on  her  brow. 

Isaac  leant  heavily  on  the  table.  A 
horrible  suspicion  swept  through  him. 
Had  she  wronged  him  in  a  yet  blacker 
way  ?  He  bent  over  her,  breathing  fast 
—  ready  to  strike. 

•  Who  was  it  ? ' 

She  laughed.  '  Well,  it  wor  TinwtJiy 
then  —  yur  precious  —  beautiful  son  — 
Timothy  ! ' 

He  fell  back. 

'  Yore  lyin,'  he  cried ;  '  yer  want  to 
throw  it  off  on  someone.  How  cud  Tim- 
othy 'ave  'ad  anythin  to  do  with  John's 
money }  Timothy's  not  been  near  the 
place  this  three  months.' 


150  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

'  Not  till  lasst  night,'  she  said,  mocking 
him.  '  I'll  grant  ycr — not  till  lasst  night. 
But  it  do  'a[)pcn,  as  lasst  night  Timothy 
took  lOrty-onc  pound  o'  John  Borroful's 
money  out  o'  that  box,  an  got  off  —  clean. 
I'm  sorry  if  yer  don't  like  it  —  but  I  can't 
'elp  that ;  yo  listen  'ere.' 

And  lifting  a  quivering  finger  she  told 
her  tale  at  last,  all  the  beginning  of  it 
confused  and  almost  unintelligible,  but 
the  scene  with  Timothy  vivid,  swift,  con- 
vincing—  a  direct  impression  from  the 
ugly  immediate  fact. 

He  listened,  his  face  lying  on  his  arms. 
It  was  true,  all  true.  She  might  have 
taken  more  and  Timothy  less ;  no  doubt 
she  was  making  it  out  as  bad  as  she 
could  for  Timothy.  But  it  lay  between 
them  —  his  wife  and  his  son  —  it  lay  be- 
tween them. 

'An    I    'eard    yer    coming,'  she  ended; 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  151 

'an  I  thought  I'd  tell  yer  —  an  I  vvor 
frightened  about  the  'arf-crowns  —  people 
'ad  been  talkin  so  at  Dawson's  —  an  I 
didn't  see  no  way  out — an  —  an — ' 

She  ceased,  her  hand  plucking  again  at 
the  comforter,  her  throat  working. 

He,  too,  thought  of  the  loving  words  he 
had  said  to  her,  and  the  memory  of  them 
only  made  his  misery  the  more  fierce. 

'  An  there  ain't  no  way  out,'  he  said 
violently,  raising  his  head.  '  Yer'U  be 
took  before  the  magistrates  next  week, 
an  the  assizes  uU  be  in  February,  an 
yer'll  get  six  months — if  yer  don't  get 
more.' 

She  got  up  from  her  chair  as  though 
physically  goaded  by  the  words. 

'  I'll  not  go  to  jail,'  she  said  under  her 
breath.     '  I'll  not  — ' 

A  sound  of  scorn  broke  from  Isaac. 

'You    should    ha'    thought    o'    that,'   he 


152  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

said.  '  Yo  sliould  lui'  thought  o'  that. 
An  what  you've  been  sayin  about 
Timothy  don't  make  it  a  'aporth  the 
better  —  not  for  you!  Yo  led  'm  into 
it  too  —  if  it  'adn't  been  for  yo,  'ee'd 
never  ha'  seen  the  cursed  stuff.  Yo've 
dragged  'ini  down  worse  nor  'ee  were — 
an  yerself — an  the  childer  —  an  me.  An 
the  drink,  an  the  lyin  !  —  it  turns  a  man's 
stomach  to  think  on  it.  An  I've  been 
Hvin  with  yer — these  twelve  years.  I 
wish  to  the  Lord  I'd  never  seen  yer  — 
as  the  children  'ud  never  been  born  ! 
They'll  be  known  all  their  life  now  —  as 
'avin  'ad  sich  a  woman  for  their  mother  !  ' 

A  demon  of  passion  possessed  him 
more  and  more.  He  looked  at  her  with 
murderous  eyes,  his  hand  on  the  table 
working. 

For  his  world,  too,  lay  in  ruins  about 
him.     Through     many    hard-working    and 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  153 

virtuous  years  he  had  counted  among 
the  righteous  men  of  the  village — the 
men  whom  the  Almighty  must  needs 
reckon  to  the  good  whenever  the  score 
of  Clinton  Magna  had  to  be  made  up. 
And  this  pre-eminence  had  come  to  be 
part  of  the  habitual  furniture  of  life  and 
thought.  To  be  suddenly  stripped  of  it 
- — -to  be,  not  only  disgraced  by  his  wife, 
to  be  thrust  down  himself  among  the 
low  and  sinful  herd — this  thought  made 
another  man  of  him  ;  made  him  wicked, 
as  it  were,  perforce.  For  who  that  heard 
the  story  would  ever  believe  that  he  was 
not  the  partner  of  her  crime  ?  Had  he 
not  eaten  and  drunk  of  it ;  were  not  he 
and  his  children  now  clothed  by  it  ? 

Bessie  did  not  answer  him  nor  look  at 
him.  At  any  other  moment  she  would 
have  been  afraid  of  him;  now  she  feared 
nothing  but  the  image  in    her  own  mind 


154  rhc  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

—  herself  led  alonj;-  the  villap;c  street,  en- 
closed in  that  hateful  buildin_^",  out  off 
from  all  pleasure,  all  free  moving  and 
willini;"  —  alone  and  despised  —  her  chil- 
dren taken  from   her. 

Suddenly  she  walked  into  the  back 
kitchen  and  opened  the  door  leading  to 
the  garden. 

Outside  everything  lay  swathed  in  white, 
and  a  snowstorm  was  drifting  over  the 
deep  cup  of  land  which  held  the  village. 
A  dull,  melancholy  moonlight  seemed  to 
be  somewhere  behind  the  snow  curtain, 
for  the  muffled  shapes  of  the  houses 
below  and  the  long  sweep  of  the  hill 
were  visible  through  the  dark,  and  the 
objects  in  the  little  garden  itself  were 
almost  distinct.  There,  in  the  centre, 
rose  the  round  stone  edging  of  the  well, 
the  copious  well,  sunk  deep  into  the 
chalk,  for  which    Bessie's    neighbours  en- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  155 

vied  her,  whence  her  good  nature  let 
them  (h-aw  freely  at  any  time  of  drought. 
On  either  side  of  it  the  gnarled  stems 
of  old  fruit-trees  and  the  bare  sticks  of 
winter  kail  made  black  scratches  and 
blots  upon  the  white. 

Bessie  looked  out,  leaning  against  the 
doorway,  and  heedless  of  the  wind  that 
drove  upon  her.  Down  below  there  was 
a  light  in  Watson's  cottage,  and  a  few 
lights  from  the  main  street  beyond  pierced 
the  darkness.  The  'Spotted  Deer'  must 
be  at  that  moment  full  of  people,  all  talk- 
ing of  her  and  Isaac.  Her  eye  came 
hastily  back  to  the  snow-shrouded  well  and 
dwelt  upon  it. 

'Shut  that  door!'  Isaac  commanded 
from  inside.  She  obeyed,  and  came  back 
into  the  kitchen.  There  she  moved  rest- 
lessly about  a  minute  or  two,  followed  by 
his  frowning  look —  the  look,  not  of  a  hus- 


156  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

band,  but  of  an  enemy.  Then  a  siulden 
animal  ycarnin^;'  for  rest  and  warmth  seized 
her.  Slie  opened  the  door  l)y  the  hearth 
abruptly  and  went  up,  longing  simply 
to  lie  down  and  cover  herself  from  the 
cold. 

But,  after  all,  she  turned  aside  to  the 
children,  and  sat  there  for  some  time  at 
the  foot  of  the  little  boys'  bed.  The  chil- 
dren, especially  Arthur,  had  been  restless 
for  long,  ke]:)t  awake  and  trembling  by  the 
strange  sounds  outside  their  door  and  the 
loud  voices  downstairs  ;  but,  with  the  deep 
silence  that  had  suddenly  fadlen  on  the 
house  after  Isaac  had  gone  away  to  seek 
his  interview  with  Watson,  sleep  had  come 
to  them,  and  even  Arthur,  on  whose  thin 
cheeks  the  smears  left  by  crying  were 
still  visible,  was  quite  unconscious  of  his 
mother.  She  looked  at  them  from  time 
to  time,  by  the  light  of  a  bit  of  a  candle 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  157 

she  had  placed  on  a  box  beside  her  ;  but 
she  did  not  kiss  them,  and  her  eyes  had 
no  tears.  From  time  to  time  she  looked 
quickly  round  her,  as  though  startled  by  a 
sound,  a  breathing. 

Presently,  shivering  with  cold,  she  went 
into  her  own  room.  There,  mechanically, 
she  took  off  her  outer  dress,  as  though  to 
go  to  bed  ;  but  when  she  had  done  so  her 
hands  fell  by  her  side  ;  she  stood  motion- 
less till,  suddenly  wrapping  an  old  shawl 
round  her,  she  took  up  her  candle  and 
went  downstairs  again. 

As  she  pushed  open  the  door  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  she  saw  Isaac,  where  she  had 
left  him,  sitting  on  his  chair,  bent  forward, 
his  hands  dropping  between  his  knees,  his 
gaze  fixed  on  a  bit  of  dying  fire  in  the 
grate. 

' Isaac  ! ' 

He  looked  up  with  the  unwillingness  of 


15S  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

one  who  hates  the  sound  he  heai's,  and 
saw  her  standini;  on  the  lowest  step. 
Her  black  hair  had  fallen  upon  her  shoul- 
ders, her  quick  breath  shook  the  shawl  she 
held  about  her,  and  tlie  light  in  her  hand 
showed  the  anguished  brightness  of  the 
eyes. 

'  Isaac,  are  yer  comin  up  .-' ' 

The  question  maddened  him.  He 
turned    to    look    at    her    more    fixedly. 

'Comin  up.'*  noa,  I'm  not  comin  up  — 
so  now  yer  know.  Take  yerself  off,  an  be 
quick.' 

She  trembled. 

'  Are  yer  goin  to  sleep  down  'ere, 
Isaac .'' ' 

'Aye,  or  wherever  I  likes:  it's  no  con- 
cern o'  yourn.  I'm  no  'usband  o'  yourn 
from  this  day  forth.  Take  yourself  off,  I 
say  !  —  I'll  'ave  no  thief  for  uij  wife  ! ' 

But  instead  of  going  she  stepped  down 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  159 

into  the  kitchen.  His  words  had  broken 
her  down  ;  she  was  crying  again. 

*  Isaac,  I'd  ha'  put  it  back,'  she  said  im- 
ploring. '  I  wor  goin  in  to  Bedford  to  see 
Mr.  Grimstone  —  'ee'd  ha'  managed  it  for 
me.  I'd  a  worked  extra  —  I  could  ha' 
done  it  —  if  it  'adn't  been  for  Timothy.  If 
you'll  'elp  —  an  you'd  oughter,  for  yer  arc 
my  'usband,  whativer  yer  may  say  —  we 
could  pay  John  back  —  some  day.  Yo  can 
go  to  'im,  an  to  Watson,  an  say  as  we'll 
pay  it  back  —  yo  could,  Isaac.  I  can  take 
ter  the  plattin  again,  an  I  can  go  an  work 
for  Mrs.  Drew  —  she  asked  me  again  lasst 
week.  Mary  Anne  nil  see  to  the  childer. 
You  go  to  John,  Isaac,  to-morrer  —  an  — 
an  —  to  Watson.  All  they  wants  is  the 
money  back.  Yer  couldn't — yer  couldn't 
—  see  me  took  to  prison,  Isaac' 

She  gasped  for  breath,  wiping  the  mist 
from  her  eyes  with  the  edge  of  her  shawl. 


i6o  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

l^ut  all  that  she  said  only  maddened 
the  man's  harsh  and  pessimist  nature  the 
more.  The  futility  of  her  proposals,  of 
her  daring  to  think,  after  his  fiat  and  the 
law's  had  gone  forth,  that  there  was  any 
way  out  of  what  she  had  done,  for  her  or 
for  him,  drove  him  to  frenzy.  And  his 
wretched  son  was  far  away  ;  so  he  must 
vent  the  frenzy  on  her.  The  melancholia, 
which  religion  had  more  or  less  restrained 
and  comforted  during  a  troubled  lifetime, 
became  on  this  tragic  night  a  wild-beast 
impulse  that  must  have  its  prey. 

He  rose  suddenly  and  came  towards  her, 
his  eyes  glaring,  and  a  burst  of  invective 
on  his  white  lips.  Then  he  made  a  rush 
for  a  heavy  stick  that  leant  against  the  wall. 

She  fled  from  him,  reached  her  bedroom 
in  safety,  and  bolted  the  door.  She  heard 
him  give  a  groan  on  the  stairs,  throw  away 
the  stick,  and  descend  again. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  i6i 

Then  for  nearly  two  hours  there  was 
absohite  stihness  once  more  in  this  miser- 
able house.  Bessie  had  sunk,  half  faint- 
ing, on  a  chair  by  the  bed,  and  lay  there, 
her  head  lying  against  the  pillow. 

But  in  a  very  short  time  the  blessed 
numbness  was  gone,  and  consciousness 
became  once  more  a  torture,  the  medium 
of  terrors  not  to  be  borne.  Isaac  hated 
her — she  would  be  taken  from  her  chil- 
dren—  she  felt  Watson's  grip  upon  her 
arm  —  she  saw  the  jeering  faces  at  the 
village  doors. 

At  times  a  wave  of  sheer  bewilderment 
swept  across  her.  How  had  it  come  about 
that  she  was  sitting  there  like  this  ?  Only 
two  days  before  she  had  been  everybody's 
friend.  Life  had  been  perpetually  gay  and 
exciting.  She  had  had  qualms  indeed, 
moments  of  a  quick  anguish,  before  the 
scene   in  the  '  Spotted   Deer.'     But   there 


M 


1 62  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

had  been  always  some  thought  to  protect 
her  from  lierself.  John  was  not  coming 
back  for  a  long",  long  time.  She  would 
replace  the  money —  of  course  she  would  ! 
And  she  would  not  take  any  more  —  or 
only  a  very  little.  Meanwhile  the  hours 
floated  by,  dressed  in  a  colour  and  variety 
they  had  never  yet  possessed  for  her — 
charged  with  all  the  delights  of  wealth, 
as  such  a  human  being  under  such  con- 
ditions is  able  to   conceive  them. 

Her  nature,  indeed,  had  never  gauged 
its  own  capacities  for  pleasure  till  within 
the  last  few  months.  Excitement,  amuse- 
ment, society  —  she  had  grown  to  them; 
they  had  evoked  in  her  a  richer  and  fuller 
life,  expanded  and  quickened  all  the  cur- 
rents of  her  blood.  As  she  sat  shivering 
in  the  darkness  and  solitude,  she  thought 
with  a  sick  longing  of  the  hours  in  the 
public-house — ^the    lights,    the    talk,    the 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  163 

warmth  within  and  without.  The  drink- 
thirst  was  upon  her  at  this  moment.  It 
had  driven  her  down  to  the  village  that 
afternoon  at  the  moment  of  John's  arrival. 
But  she  had  no  money.  She  had  not 
dared  to  unlock  the  cupboard  again,  and 
she  could  only  wander  up  and  down  the 
bit  of  dark  road  beyond  the  '  Spotted 
Deer,'  suffering  and  craving. 

Well,  it  was  all  done  —  all  done! 

She  had  come  up  without  her  candle, 
and  the  only  light  in  the  room  was  a  cold 
glimmer  from  the  snow  outside.  But  she 
must  find  a  light,  for  she  must  write  a 
letter.  By  much  groping  she  found  some 
matches,  and  then  lit  one  after  another 
while  she  searched  in  her  untidy  drawers 
for  an  ink-bottle  and  a  pen  she  knew  must 
be  there. 

She  found  them,  and  with  infinite  diffi- 
culty —  holding  match  after  match  in  her 


164  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

left  hand  —  she  scrawled  a  few  blotted 
lines  on  a  torn  piece  of  paper.  She  was 
a  poor  scholar,  and  the  toil  was  great. 
When  it  was  done,  she  propped  the  paper 
up  against  the  looking-glass. 

Then  she  felt  for  her  dress,  and  de- 
liberately put  it  on  again,  in  the  dark, 
though  her  hands  were  so  numb  with  cold 
that  she  could  scarcely  hook  the  fasten- 
ings. Her  teeth  chattered  as  she  threw 
her  old  shawl  round  her. 

Stooping  down  she  took  off  her  boots, 
and  pushing  the  bolt  of  her  own  door 
back  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  she  crept 
down  the  stairs.  As  she  neared  the  lower 
door,  the  sound  of  two  or  three  loud 
breathings  caught  her  ear. 

Her  heart  contracted  with  an  awful 
sense  of  loneliness.  Her  husband  slept 
—  her  children  slept  —  while  she  — 

Then  the  wave  of  a  strange,  a  just  pas- 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  165 

sion  mounted  within  her.  She  stepped 
into  the  kitchen,  and  walking  up  to  her 
husband's  chair,  she  stood  still  a  moment 
looking  at  him.  The  lamp  was  dying 
away,  but  she  could  still  see  him  plainly. 
She  held  herself  steadily  erect  ;  a  frown 
was  on  her  brow,  a  flame  in  her  eyes. 

'Well,  good-bye,  Isaac,'  she  said,  in  a 
low  but  firm   voice. 

Then  she  walked  to  the  back  door  and 
opened  it,  taking  no  heed  of  noise ;  the 
latch  fell  heavily,  the  hinges  creaked. 

'  Isaac  !  '  she  cried,  her  tones  loud  and 
ringing",  '  Isaac  ! ' 

There  was  a  sudden  sound  in  the 
kitchen.  She  slipped  through  the  door, 
and  ran  along  the  snow-covered  garden. 

Isaac,  roused  by  her  call  from  the  deep 
trance  of  exhaustion  which  only  a  few 
minutes  before  had  fallen  upon  his  mis- 
ery,   stood    up,   felt    the  blast    rushing  in 


1 66  Tlic   Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

through  the  open  door  at  the  baek,  and 
ran    blindly. 

•  The  door  had  swung  to  again.  He 
clutched  it  open  ;  in  the  dim  weird  light, 
he  saw  a  dark  figure  stoop  over  the  well ; 
he  heard  something  flung  aside,  which  fell 
upon  the  snow  with  a  thud  ;  then  the 
figure  sprang  upon  the  coping  of  the 
well. 

He  ran  with  all  his  speed,  his  face 
beaten  by  the  wind  and  sleet.  But  he 
was  too  late.  A  sharp  cry  pierced  the 
night.  As  he  reached  the  well,  and  hung 
over  it,  he  heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  a 
groan,  a  beating  of  the  water  —  then  no 
more. 

Isaac's  shouts  for  help  attracted  the 
notice  of  a  neighbour  who  was  sitting 
up  with  her  daughter  and  a  new-born 
child.      She    roused     her    son-in-law    and 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  167 

his  boy,  and  through  them  a  score  of 
others,  deep  night  though  it  was. 

Watson  was  among  the  first  of  those 
who  gathered  round  the  well.  He  and 
others  lowered  Isaac  with  ropes  into  its 
icy  depths,  and  drew  him  up  again,  while 
the  snow  beat  upon  them  all  —  the  strain- 
ing men — the  two  dripping  shapes  emerg- 
ing from  the  earth.  A  murmur  of  horror 
greeted  the  first  sight  of  that  marred  face 
on  Isaac's  arm,  as  the  lanterns  fell  upon 
it.  For  there  was  a  gash  above  the  eye, 
caused  by  a  projection  in  the  hard  chalk 
side  of  the  well,  which  of  itself  spoke  death. 

Isaac  carried  her  in,  and  laid  her  down 
before  the  still  glowing  hearth.  A  shud- 
der ran  through  him  as  he  knelt,  bending 
over  her.  The  new  wound  had  effaced 
all  the  traces  of  Timothy's  blow.  How 
lone  was  it  since  she  had  stood  there 
before  him  pointing  to  it  ? 


i68  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

The  features  were  already  rigid.  No 
one  felt  the  smallest  hope.  Yet  with 
that  futile  tenderness  all  can  show  to 
the  dead,  everything  was  tried.  Mary 
Anne  Waller  came  —  white  and  speech- 
less —  and  her  deft  gentle  hands  did 
whatever  the  village  doctor  told  her. 
And  there  were  many  other  women,  too, 
who  did  their  best.  Some  of  them,  had 
Bessie  dared  to  live,  would  have  helped 
with  all  their  might  to  fill  her  cup  of 
punishment  to  the  brim.  Now  that  she 
had  thrown  herself  on  death  as  her  only 
friend,  they  were  dissolved  in  pity. 

Everything  failed.  Bessie  had  meant 
to  die,  and  she  had  not  missed  her  aim. 
There  came  a  moment  when  the  doctor, 
laying  his  ear  for  the  last  time  to  her 
cold  breast,  raised  himself  to  bid  the 
useless  effort  cease. 

*  Send   them  all    away,'  he  said    to    the 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  169 

little  widow,  'and  you  stay.'  Watson 
helped  to  clear  the  room,  then  he  and 
Isaac  carried  the  dead  woman  upstairs. 
An  old  man  followed  them,  a  bent  and 
broken  being,  who  dragged  himself  up 
the  steps  with  his  stick.  Watson  out  of 
compassion  came  back  to  help  him. 

'John  —  yer'd  better  go  home,  an  to 
yer  bed  —  yer  can't  do  no  good.' 

'  I'll  wait  for  Mary  Anne,'  said  John, 
in  a  shaking  whisper  —  '  I'll  wait  for 
Mary  Anne.' 

And  he  stood  at  the  doorway  leaning 
on  his  stick ;  his  weak  and  reddened 
eyes  fixed  on  his  cousin,  his  mouth  open 
feebly. 

But  Mary  Anne,  weeping,  beckoned  to 
another  woman  who  had  come  up  with 
the  little  procession,  and  they  began  their 
last  offices. 

'  Let  us  go,'  said  the  doctor  kindly,  his 


I  70  The  Story  of   Bessie   Costrell 

haiul  on  Isaac's  shoulder,  '  till  they  have 
done.' 

At  that  moment  Watson,  throwing  a 
last  professional  glance  round  the  room, 
perceived  the  piece  of  torn  paper  propped 
against  the  glass.  Ah !  there  was  the 
lettei.     There  was  always  a  letter. 

He  walked  forward,  glanced  at  it  and 
handed  it  to  Isaac.  Isaac  drew  his  hand 
across  his  brow  in  bewilderment,  then 
seemed  to  recognise  the  handwriting  and 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket  without  a  word. 
Watson  touched  his  arm.  'Don't  you  de- 
stroy it,'  he  said  in  warning;  'it'll  be 
asked  for  at  the  inquest.' 

The  men  descended.  Watson  and  the 
doctor  departed.  John  and  Isaac  were 
left  alone  in  the  kitchen.  Isaac  hung 
over  the  fire,  which  had  been  piled  up 
in  the  hope  of  restoring  warmth  to  the 
drowned  woman.     Suddenly  he  took  out 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  171 

the   letter  and,  bending  his    head    to  the 
blaze,  began  to  read  it. 

'  Isaac,  yer  a  cruel  husband  to  me,  an 
there's  no  way  fer  me  but    the  way  I'm 
2.oin.      I  didn't  mean  no  'arm,  not  at  first, 
but    there,    wot's    the    good    of    talkin.      I 
can't  bear  the  way  as  you  speaks  to  me 
an  looks  at  me,  an  I'll  never  go  to  prison 
—  no,  never.     It's  orful  —  fer  the  children 
ull  'ave  no  mother,  an  I  don't  know  how- 
ever Arthur  ull  manage.     But  yer  woodent 
show  me  no  mercy,   an   I   can't    think    of 
anythin  different.      I   did   love  yer  an   the 
childer,    but    the    drink    got    holt    of    me. 
Yer  mus  see  as  Arthur  is  rapped  up,  an 
Edie's  eyes  ull  'ave  to  be  seen  to  now  an 
agen.     I'm  sorry,  but  there's  nothin  else. 
I  wud  like  yer  to  kiss  me  oust,  when  they 
bring  me  in,  and  jes  say,  Bessie,  I  forgive 
yer.      It  won't  do  yer  no  'arm,  an   p'raps 
I   may   'ear  it   without  your  knowin.     So 


172  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

good-bye  Isaac,  from  yur  lovin  wife,  Bes- 
sie. .  .   .' 

As  he  read  it,  the  man's  fixed  pallor 
and  irt)n  calm  gave  way.  He  leant 
against  the  mantelpiece,  shaken  at  last 
with  the  sobs  of  a  human  and  a  helpless 
remorse. 

John,  from  his  seat  on  the  settle  a  few 
yards  away,  looked  at  Isaac  miserably. 
His  lips  opened  now  and  then  as  though 
to  speak,  then  closed  again.  His  brain 
could  form  no  distinct  image.  He  was 
encompassed  by  a  general  sense  of  deso- 
lation, springing  from  the  loss  of  his 
money,  which  was  pierced  every  now 
and  then  by  a  strange  sense  of  guilt.  It 
seemed  to  have  something  to  do  with 
Bessie,  this  last,  though  what  he  could 
not  have  told. 

So  they  sat,  till  Mary  Anne's  voice 
called  '  Isaac '  from  the  top  of  the  stairs. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  173 

Isaac  stood  up,  drew  one  deep  breath, 
controlled  himself,  and  went,  John  fol- 
lowing. 

Mary  Anne  held  the  bedroom  door  open 
for  them,  and  the  two  men  entered,  tread- 
ing softly. 


The  women  stood  on  either  hand  cryin 


e>- 


They  had  clothed  the  dead  in  white  and 
crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast.  A 
linen  covering  had  been  passed,  nun-like, 
round  the  head  and  chin.  The  wound  was 
hidden,  and  the  face  lay  framed  in  an  oval 
of  pure  white,  which  gave  it  a  strange 
severity. 

Isaac  bent  over  her.  Was  this  Bessie 
—  Bessie,  the  human,  faulty,  chattering 
creature  —  whom  he,  her  natural  master, 
had  been  free  to  scold  or  caress  at  will } 
At  bottom  he  had  always  been  conscious 
in  regard  to  her  of  a  silent  but  immeasu- 
rable superiority,  whether  as  mere  man  to 


174  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

mere  woman,  or  as  the  Christian  to  the 
sinner. 

Now  —  he  dared  scarcely  touch  her. 
As  she  lay  in  this  new-found  dignity, 
the  proud  peace  of  her  look  intimidated, 
accused  him  —  would  always  accuse  him 
till  he  too  rested  as  she  rested  now,  clad 
for  the  end.  Yet  she  had  bade  him 
kiss  her  —  and  he  obeyed  her  —  groaning 
within  himself,  incapable  altogether,  out 
of  sheer  abasement,  of  saying  those  words 
she  had  asked  of  him. 

Then  he  sat  down  beside  her,  motion- 
less. John  tried  once  or  twice  to  speak  to 
him,  but  Isaac  shook  his  head  impatiently. 
At  last  the  mere  presence  of  Bolderfield  in 
the  room  seemed  to  anger  him.  He  threw 
the  old  man  such  dark  and  restless  looks 
that  Mary  Anne  perceived  them,  and,  with 
instinctive  understanding,  persuaded  John 
to  go. 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  175 

She,  however,  must  needs  go  with  him, 
and  she  went.  The  other  woman  stayed. 
Every  now  and  then  she  looked  furtively 
at  Isaac. 

*  If  some  one  don't  look  arter  'im,'  she 
said  to  herself,  '  'ee'll  go  as  his  father  and 
his  brothers  went  afore  him.  'Ee's  got 
the  look  on  it  awready.  Wheniver  it's 
light  I'll  go  fetch  Muster  Drew.' 

With  the  first  rays  of  the  morning 
Bolderfield  got  up  from  the  bed  in  Mary 
Anne's  cottage,  where  she  had  placed  him 
a  couple  of  hours  before,  imploring  him  to 
lie  still  and  rest  himself.  He  slipped  on 
his  coat,  the  only  garment  he  had  taken 
off,  and  taking  his  stick  he  crept  down  to 
the  cottage  door.  Mary  Anne,  who  had 
gone  out  to  fetch  some  bread,  had  left  it 
ajar.  He  opened  it  and  stood  on  the 
threshold  looking  out. 


176  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

The  storm  of  the  night  was  over,  and 
already  a  milder  breeze  was  beginning  to 
melt  the  newly-fallen  snow.  The  sun  was 
striking  cheerfully  from  the  hill  behind 
him  upon  the  glistening  surfaces  of  the 
distant  fields  ;  the  old  labourer  felt  a  hint 
of  spring  in  the  air.  It  brought  with  it  a 
hundred  vague  associations,  and  filled  him 
with  a  boundless  despair.  What  would 
become  of  him  now  —  penniless  and  old 
and  feeble  ?  The  horror  of  Bessie's  death 
no  longer  stood  between  him  and  his  own 
pain,  and  would  soon  even  cease  to  protect 
her  from  his  hatred. 

Mary  Anne  came  back  along  the  lane, 
carrying  a  jug  and  a  loaf.  Her  little  face 
was  all  blanched  and  drawn  with  weari- 
ness ;  yet  when  she  saw  him  her  look 
kindled.     She  ran  up  to  him. 

'What  did  yer  come  down  for,  John.'' 
I'd  ha  taken  yer  yer  breakfast  in  yer  bed.' 


The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell  177 

He  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  food.  His 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

*  I  can't  pay  yer  for  it,'  he  said,  pointing 
with  his  stick  ;  'I  can't  pay  yer  for  it.' 

Mary  Anne  led  him  in,  scolding  and 
coaxing  him  with  her  gentle  trembling 
voice.  She  made  him  sit  down  while  she 
blew  up  the  fire ;  she  fed  and  tended  him. 
When  she  had  forced  him  to  eat  some- 
thing, she  came  behind  him  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

'John,'  she  said,  clearing  her  throat, 
'John,  yer  shan't  want  while  I'm  livin.  I 
promised  Eliza  I  wouldn't  forget  yer,  and 
I  won't.  I  can  work  yet  —  there's  plenty 
o'  people  want  me  to  work  for  'em  —  an 
maybe,  when  yer  get  over  this,  you'll  work 
a  bit  too  now  and  again.  We'll  hold  to- 
gether, John  —  anyways.  While  I  live  and 
keep  my  'elth  yer  shan't  want.  An  yer'll 
foro-ive    Bessie'  —  she  broke  into    sudden 


17S  The  Story  of  Bessie  Costrell 

sobbing.       'Oh!     I'll    never    'ear   a    crule 
word  about  Bessie  in  my  'ouse,  never!' 

John  put  his  arms  on  the  table  and  hid 
his  face  upon  them.  He  could  not  speak 
of  forgiveness,  nor  could  he  thank  her  for 
her  promise.  His  chief  feeling  was  an  in- 
tense wish  to  sleep  ;  but  as  Mary  Anne 
dried  her  tears  and  began  to  go  about  her 
household  work,  the  sound  of  her  step,  the 
sense  of  her  loving  presence  near  him,  be- 
gan for  the  first  time  to  relax  the  aching 
grip  upon  his  heart.  He  had  always  been 
weak  and  dependent,  in  spite  of  his  thrift 
and  his  money.  He  would  be  far  more 
weak  and  dependent  now  and  hencefor- 
ward. But  again,  he  had  found  a  woman's 
tenderness  to  lean  upon,  and  as  she  min- 
istered to  him  —  this  humble  shrinking 
creature  he  had  once  so  cordially  despised 
—  the  first  drop  of  balm  fell  upon  his  sore. 


The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell  179 

Meanwhile,  in  another  cottage  a  few 
yards  away,  Mr.  Drew  was  wrestling  with 
Isaac.  In  his  own  opinion,  he  met  with 
small  success.  The  man  who  had  refused 
his  wife  mercy,  shrank  with  a  kind  of  hor- 
ror from  talking  of  the  Divine  mercy. 
Isaac  Costrell's  was  a  strange  and  groping 
soul.  But  those  misjudged  him  who  called 
him  a  hypocrite. 

Yet  in  truth,  during  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed, whenever  he  was  not  under  the 
influence  of  recurrent  attacks  of  mel- 
ancholia, Isaac  did  again  derive  much 
comfort  from  the  aspirations  and  self- 
abasements  of  religion.  No  human  life 
would  be  possible  if  there  were  not  forces 
in  and  round  man  perpetually  tending  to 
repair  the  wounds  and  breaches  that  he 
himself  makes.  Misery  provokes  pity ; 
despair  throws  itself  on  a  Divine  tender- 
ness.    And  for  those  who  have  the  '  grace  ' 


i 


I  So  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell 

of  faith,  in  the  broken  and  imperfect 
action  of  these  healing  powers  upon  this 
various  world  —  in  the  love  of  the  merciful 
for  the  unhappy,  in  the  tremulous  yet 
undying  hope  that  pierces  even  sin  and 
remorse  with  the  vision  of  some  ultimate 
salvation  from  the  self  that  breeds  them 
—  in  these  powers  there  speaks  the  only 
voice  which  can  make  us  patient  under 
the  tragedies  of  human  fate,  whether  these 
tragedies  be  '  the  falls  of  princes '  or  such 
meaner,  narrower  pains  as  brought  poor 
Bessie  Costrell  to  her  end. 


THE    END 


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so  compelling  is  the  charm  of  it.  The  Lady  of  Garthland  makes  a  gracious 
.and  pathetic  figure,  and  the  wild  and  terrible  Uchtred,  the  wrong  done  him, 
the  vengeance  which  he  did  not  take,  —  all  these  things  are  narrated  in  a 
style  of  exquisite  clearness  and  beauty.  Mr.  Crockett  need  not  fear  com- 
parison with  any  of  the  young  Scotsjnen  who  are  giving  to  English  literature, 
just  now,  so  much  that  is  fresh,  and  wholesome,  and  powerful."  —  Boston 
Courier. 

THE  SILVER  CHRIST, 

AND 

A  LEMON  TREE. 

BY   OUIDA, 

Author  of  "  Under  Two  Flags,"  "  Two  Little  Wooden 
Shoes,"  Etc.,  Etc. 

i6mo.     Buckram.     $1.25. 


"  Two  charming  stories  by  '  Ouida'  are  included  in  a  dainty  little  volume 
( '  The  Silver  Christ';  'A  Lemon  Tree').  Comparatively  few  persons  —  scat 
least  it  seems  to  us  —appreciate  this  writer  at  her  true  value.  We  have  not 
the  highest  opinion  of  much  of  her  work;  it  is  meritricious  and  even  vulgar. 
But  at  her  best  she  is  capable  of  truly  e.xquisite  writing,  and  it  is  in  shorter 
tales,  dealing  with  an  episode  —  brief  studies  of  character — that  she  is  at 
her  best."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  Is  pathetic,  simple,  and  beautifully  told,  and  those  who  have  classed 
Ouida  among  the  forbidden  fruits  of  literature,  should  read  it  to  understand 
what  an  artist  with  the  pen  she  is."  —  Boston  Times. 


MACMILLAN    &    CO., 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,    NEW   YORK. 
10 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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